


When I See You Again

by Ellitheria



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Ressler, Drama, F/M, Future Fic, Pre-Relationship, case-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellitheria/pseuds/Ellitheria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ressler has been hunting Elizabeth Keen for two months without much luck. He hates the fact that he gets excited when he gets a lead that may lead to her capture, but it's not because he wants to see her behind bars, it's because he wants to SEE her. </p><p>Or, the story in which Ressler is hunting FBI's Most Wanted, Elizabeth Keen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_It's been a long day without you, my friend_

_And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again_

_We've come a long way from where we began_

_Oh, I'll tell you all about it when I see you again_

**When I See You Again**

**May 15th, 2015 - Acting Director Agent Donald Ressler's Office - 8:45 PM**

The room feels too large.

There's only one desk instead of two and it's silent and his partner isn't there filling the quiet with her large personality, her quirks, her quiet way of researching and then yelling " _Ah ha_!" when she'd discovered something.

Ressler sighs, and rubs a hand over his eyes. He props his head on his hand and looks out over the sea of files covering his desk. _In his office_. Oh, Lord, how had he gotten himself here?

"Boss?"

Ressler looks up, the term unfamiliar yet becoming frighteningly normal.

"Yes, Agent Navabi?"

The way she looks at him is almost pitying. He doesn't blame her. He's practically lived here for two months and he knows he isn't the prettiest sight right now. It's 9 at night and he's been here since 7 in the morning. He had shucked his suit jacket several hours ago and so far, two buttons are undone on his shirt, the cuffs rolled up to facilitate easier digging through copious amounts of sightings, eyewitness accounts, information given by other branches of the FBI, and personal records of missions he'd been on where he'd missed them _every single time_.

"You should go home, get some rest."

Ressler chuckles tiredly. "Yeah, I probably should."

They're both silent for a few minutes. Agent Navabi sighs, leaning against his doorway.

"You're not going home, are you?"

Ressler shakes his head, standing up and grabbing his coffee cup.

"No. There was a sighting in Paris yesterday and I need to figure out as much as I can before the lead goes cold."

Samar grins a little. "I'm surprised you're not on the first flight out there."

Ressler shrugs, heading for the door. Samar follows - he doesn't even need to ask her.

"I've done that plenty of times. I know what happens - they'll be gone. Unless I can catch them off-guard, it's pointless. By the time someone reports something to me, it's already been reported to Reddington by the eyes and ears he has planted throughout the world. No, unless _I_  come up with the lead, it will have gone cold by the time I get there."

 _Though it doesn't stop me from_ wanting _to be on the first plane_ , he thinks. For Ressler, it's physically difficult to hold himself back, to stay at the Post Office, because he has  _responsibilities_  now. He is a rule follower, a man who knows the protocols inside and out and  _follows_  them, no matter what, because they are what kept him safe his whole life. It is the only way he knows how to live. Though he will admit to breaking a rule from time to time to save someone, he still struggles when breaking protocol.

"Alright. Well, I'm heading home. You're the last one here."

The  _again_  is unspoken but silently understood by them both.

"I'll try not to stay much longer," he promises in vain, and she nods, as if it's a lie she still believes (like she won't come back in the morning to find him passed out on the couch in his office).

"Goodnight, boss."

"Goodnight, Samar," he says, and he refills his coffee cup (black, two sugars) as she walks out the door.

He sighs heavily and heads back to his office.

_9:02._

It'll be another night of the same.

The feeling of dread at the silence - the lack of _ringing_  - grows heavier. If he's honest with himself, the only reason he stays so late is that he might hear from _her_.

It'd started a few weeks ago, and he didn't quite know what to do with the fact that he didn't  _want_  to report it.

 _Ressler?_  she'd said, and she sounded like she might decide to hang up at any moment, because she knew what a monumentally horrible idea calling was. But he'd responded, _Keen. I thought I'd never hear from you again,_ and they were off _._

They never - not once - talked about Reddington, or Tom Connelly, or the Cabal, or anything having to do with work. They never talked about the fact that he was hunting her, trying to arrest her and Reddington to place them in the system - a system that he knew would sink it's claws into them and never let them out.

 _But he hunted them anyway_ , and they never talked about it.

Ressler sat down in his chair once more, setting his coffee cup down with a  _thunk_.

Her calls usually came around 9, and he was beginning to suspect he wouldn't be hearing from her again.

It'd been seven days now.

Had Reddington found out about her calls (did he know in the first place, and just hadn't stopped her?) Had a member of the Cabal found them before he did? (he refused to believe this idea, because he knew if the Cabal got a hold of Keen or Reddington, they'd both be dead). Had Keen decided to stop calling because she finally realized how horrible an idea it was?

He didn't know.

All he knew was that  _not_  hearing from her after almost a month of consistent phone calls (all made on burner cells, untraceable, because boy scout that he was, he _had_  tried to trace her calls _)._ They never lasted more than a few minutes, because most phones could be traced within a one hundred and twenty seconds with the right person trying. She took all the right precautions, and he felt both relief that he couldn't trace her and unspeakable frustration that he could hear from her but not be able to find her.

He knows he should just go home. He knows that going through the most recent eyewitness accounts and rearranging his meticulously ordered files won't bring him any closer to catching them.

He'd hunted Reddington for five years without catching them. He knew (hoped) that this would be no different.

_Riiiiiiing._

The shrill sound breaks the silence and Ressler's heart starts beating out of his chest as he whips around to stare at his phone (personal, because even Liz wouldn't dare call the FBI office while on the FBI's Top Ten Most Wanted list).

He picks it up, sees  _unknown number_  flash across the screen, and swipes to answer the call immediately.

"Hello?" he asks, and he sounds breathless even to himself (relief).

"Ressler," she says, and he feels himself melt into his chair because she's _alive_  even if he can't catch her.

He pulls the phone away from his ear for a brief second to press the red, flashing  _record_  button, because fuck, he can't just stop being who he is because it's _her_. He hates himself for it, but he does it anyway.

"God, I thought you were dead for sure," he whispers, and he chuckles. He runs a hand through his hair, and this feels a little bit like a torrid love affair, waiting until everyone in the office has gone home to talk to his lover (which Liz, of course, is  _not_ , it's just an expression).

"We were… busy," she says, and because that's straying too close to talking about work or  _Ressler hunting her_ , she steers the conversation in another direction. "How are Samar and Aram? Still dancing around that fiercely unresolved sexual tension?"

Ressler laughs at that, because  _yes_ , they are, and frankly he's getting sick of it. "Yes, of course they are," he says dryly. "I'm going to have to lock them in a closet soon."

Liz chuckles and the sound warms him from his fingers to his toes. She's not dead.

He wants to catch her for many reasons - to see her, to finish the mission - but mostly he wants to be the one to capture her because it means that no one who wants her  _dead_  can do it.

"Are you sleeping?" she asks, because even over the phone she can sense his dreadful self-preservation skills.

"Yes," he says defensively. She clicks her tongue in disbelief.

"Ress, take care of yourself, please."

He knows their time is almost up. It's been a minute and a half.

"I'll try."

He can hear her shuffling, and then the sound of chiming bells in the background. He almost laughs and asks if she's at church, but then he hears the bells again and they're not like any bells he's ever heard before. The sound isn't metallic, like the bells he's used to. Instead, it sounds like when a child is banging a wooden spoon on a metal pot - sharp, distinct. 

He doesn't ask, because suddenly he _knows_  what to do.

"Liz," he says, and he tries to keep the excitement out of his voice. "Be careful, yeah? Try to not wait a week before calling again."

"I'll see what I can do," she says, and there's no good-bye, no drawn out cheesy dialogue. She just hangs up. So he does, too.

As soon as their call is disconnected, he dials Aram with shaking fingers.

The line rings once, twice… three times, and then Aram's sleepy voice floats over the receiver.

"M… ello?" he croaks, and Ressler doesn't want to know  _why_  Aram was in bed at 9 and frankly, he doesn't care, either.

"Aram. I need to know something."

"Ok," Aram says, and he sounds a little more awake now. "What do you need to know?"

"Can you track a sound? Like, if the sound was unique enough - say a certain bell ringing - is there any way you could figure out which bell?"

"Well," Aram begins, and Ressler's heart is beating fast with excitement as he shoves all his files to the side of his desks, opening his laptop and connecting his phone to it as he puts Aram on speaker. By the time Aram decides to answer the question, Ressler already has the recording of his latest conversation on his laptop. "I think so, if it was distinct enough. Like, the FBI has this database, of sounds they can trace. Trains, the sound of a plane, that kind of stuff. We use it when we get recordings of things, to match the sounds and then take out whatever noises in the recording are unnecessary. We've used it before to clear up long-range recordings that are messy. I think we could reverse it, use a sound and find out where it came from - I mean, it's worth trying."

"Great," Ressler says. "How long will it take you to put on pants and be here?"

"What?" Aram says, and Ressler has no patience.

"Aram. I need you here, like  _ten minutes ago_."

"Why the hell do I need to come back in?"

"Because," Ressler says, grinning and pressing 'play' on the recording. "I think we may have found Liz."


	2. Chapter 2

 

**May 16th, The Post Office, 12:01 AM**

The eye-rubbing and yawning has yet to cease, but at least Aram is working, so Ressler isn't going to complain.

He will, however, pace, because Samar keeps giving him these  _looks_ , and he's not quite sure what to make of them. If she had looked at him with pity or sadness before, the  _look_  had increased tenfold as she listens to the recording for the fourth time.

 _"Are you sleeping_?" Liz'z voice asks, and Ressler swallows hard, because she's concerned for him, even though he's hunting her, even though, right at this moment, he is betraying her by trying to uncover her location based on a phone call she had made because she  _cared about him_  and wanted to talk to him even though she was on the run.

The voice he misses so much pleads,  _"Ress, take care of yourself,"_  and he walks over and presses the fast forward button, unable to listen much longer with both Aram and Samar giving him sideways glances filled with pity.

"How long?" Aram asks, and Ressler knows what he's asking.  _How long has she been calling you?_

He shrugs and presses play again. He doesn't need to answer that yet. He knows when he does it'll be a toss-up as to if either of them will report him (they won't) and if they'll understand why he did what he did (they will, because they are good people who understand Liz is innocent and are understandably conflicted about her looming capture).

Aram pauses the recording right as the bells start chiming and swivels around to the other computer, clicking and clacking until he has a program pulled up on the screen. He opens a new window and the computer says  _listening..._  as Aram presses 'play' again.

They all wait in silence, hopeful yet filled with dread (if this is an actual lead he'll have to follow it, and he might catch them).

The computer screen begins blinking.

 _Searching_...

The words move across the screen faster than Ressler can keep up with them. Places, things, all different titles of sounds fly past his eyes as the computer searches.  _Air horn, ambulance,_  and  _breaking glass,_ are just a few of the ones Ressler manages to see, and he is overwhelmed by the number of things Aram's program can hear and trace. It takes several minutes to work through the 'b's and the computer chirps as five words flash across the screen:  _B_ _ell (Mingun Bell, Myanmar (Burma)._

Aram, looking quite pleased with himself, spins around in his chair.

"Found her. She's in the Republic of the Union of Myanmar, which some people still know as Burma."

Ressler wants to throw up because  _he found her._ He hasn't felt more excitement in the two months that she's been missing, but he also hasn't felt more dread and the two fighting for dominance is making his stomach roll.

"I..."

He swallows thickly, and Samar moves closer. She places a hand on his arm.

"Ressler, you don't have to - "

He cuts her off because  _yes, he does,_ because if he doesn't do his job he will lose his position as Acting Director of the Post Office and he won't have any power to continue working, to keep trying to clear her name.  _He has to_  because if he doesn't he might never see her again. If he doesn't follow the rules - fucked up though they may be, corrupt and based on the whims of the Cabal - he will be removed and he'll be useless. This is the only way he can continue to fight for her, for everyone under the influence of the choices the Cabal makes.

"Book me a flight," is all he says, and he turns to stalk off to his office.

Samar sighs, and glances at Aram. The younger man looks a little sad as he reluctantly turns back to his computer and pulls up the FBI's travel agency.

Ressler walks into his office and closes the door with shaking hands.

 _Liz, I'm coming_.

**May 17th, Delta Airlines, Mid-flight**

God, it was a long ass flight to Myanmar. Ressler had been on the plane for  _16 hours_  in  _coach_  because he had booked his flight last minute. The attendants had just announced over the intercom that they were a little more than halfway there, and that they'd be passing blankets around so passengers could go to sleep for the night. Ressler is cramped, cranky, and tired as the flight attendant approaches him with a blanket.

"Thank you," he whispers, accepting it and shifting his body away from the sleeping child and mother pair beside him so his voice doesn't wake them. "Can you tell me anything about the Mingun Bells in Myanmar? I was wondering how far away they are from the airport we'll be landing in."

The flight attendant, who apparently speaks very broken English, stares at him for a few minutes before working out what he wants. "Oh, Mingun Bells! Yes. Not far, not far. 20 minutes? Yes, by taxi."

 _God bless Aram for using an airport so close_ , he thinks, thanking the attendant again and turning back to his iPad. He pulls up Aram's most recent message, which contains information about the Mingun Bell. It is, apparently, the second largest ringing bell in the world and is made of bronze. It could be rung when someone hit it with a wooden paddle, which explains why he had thought it sounded weird and not like a normal bell. Ressler clicks on the link that Aram included, which notes that the bell could be rung by tourists, and that people often stood inside the bell while someone on the outside rang it.

Sighing, he types out a quick message to Aram, thanking him for the information and asking him to please research the city to give him a clue where to start (hotels, unusual sightings, happenings, anything that could give him a clue as to where Liz was).  _Look within a few miles of the bell_ , he types, realizing that Liz had probably called him while taking a walk alone. He can't imagine she'd call him while with Reddington or one of his protective minions, so it made sense that she wouldn't be far away from where they were staying (because Reddington was paranoid like that). Reddington would have told her to stay within a certain range so he could get to her easily in case of trouble.

After rereading his message, he touches the 'send' button and clicks his iPad into sleep mode before tucking it back into his carry-on (his only luggage - he'd packed an overnight bag based on what he'd left at the office to tide him over on all-nighters during the past few months).

Ressler unfolds the blanket he'd been given, and takes some sleeping medicine out of his bag. He downs two (one no longer works any more, he'd been unable to sleep without them for so long - he'd worry about the repercussions of that after finding Liz) and leans back.

 _14 hours to go_.

**May 17th, Myanmar, Asia, 7:45 AM**

"Ah, Liz, there you are," Reddington says, smiling as he walks through the hotel lobby.

"Good morning," she says, holding her coffee cup in both hands and staring into the milky liquid. She yawns, rubbing her eyes as he takes the seat across from her, setting his fedora on the table between them beside her phone.

"Normally you're still taking your walk," he notes, flagging down their waitress. "Tahcya kawhpe, ko kyaayyjuutain par," he orders, and Liz is still shocked that he can speak the local language while she still has to point to a coffee cup to get her point across.

"I didn't stay out as long this morning," she says, because she'd left as normal, phone in hand, but had been unable to make herself dial Ressler's number.  _7:30 AM her time was around 9 PM his time, when she knew he was still at the office and alone._  She hadn't waited a week to call him this last time because they were busy (because in reality, running didn't involve as much physical activity as one would expect, and she was bored out of her mind). She'd waited because she knew she had to stop it, if not because Reddington was becoming suspicious of her walks (walks she  _insisted_ she be alone on), then because she knew it would only make staying away harder. She  _missed_  them, Ressler and Aram and Samar. She even missed Harold Cooper, though she wasn't sure if he would still be at the FBI (because of  _her_  actions) or not.

"Interesting," Reddington notes, his eyes flickering to her cell phone, which is sitting on the table beside his fedora. He leans back and sips his (black) coffee. "Are you ready to move on?" he asks, because he lets her have as much control over their schedule as he can offer.

 _Think of it as an extended vacation_ , he had told her once.  _Explore the wonders of the world. Enjoy it. If we ever clear your name, you won't have freedom like this again_.

It made sense, in an odd way. She had seen more of the world in the last two months than she had in her entire life. But it was hard to enjoy it when their trips to famous monuments were interrupted by Reddington's cell phone ringing, letting them know that they'd been sighted, that someone had alerted the local police, or that Agent Ressler had been spotted in town. Those calls - the ones that informed them that they'd been found by the FBI -  _Ressler_  - were the worst, because they caused her to freeze up, to feel that gut-wrenching panic and indecisiveness that she'd felt after Connolly, when she'd been on the street, dialing Ressler's number because she hadn't been sure who else to call, because she had to let him know what had happened even though she  _knew_  she would be calling Reddington immediately after.

"No," she finally says. "If we can, I'd like to stay here for a day or two more."

It's easier on her walks, surrounded by beautiful sights and kind people, to be able to put her phone away and enjoy it all. It's easier to convince herself that she doesn't need to call Ressler, she doesn't need a connection to her previous life.

"Of course," Reddington says, and he takes another sip of his coffee. They dine in a comfortable silence, and after they're done, they head back to their room to call Dembe, a daily routine to see what he's managed to uncover in his work with the (increasingly smaller) collection of journalists they'd left back in New York.

Liz grabs her phone and stuffs it in her pocket, patting it to reassure herself it's there and she can still call if she needs to.

**May 17th, Myanmar, Mandalay International Airport, 9:12 Local Time**

Ressler steps off the plane, carry-on in hand. He uses his hand to shade his eyes. It's nice in Myanmar - no more than 85 degrees, the sun is shining - and it's beautiful. He can immediately see why Reddington would choose a place like this to stay. Lush green trees, beautiful landscaping and architecturally unique and beautiful buildings.

After navigating the airport and exiting the building, he raises his hand, flagging down a cab. He climbs in, and falters.  _How to communicate?_

Oh, well, the bell should be a fairly popular destination among tourists. He decides to try it. "Um, Mingun Bell?"

"Ah! Yes! Right away," the cabbie says, grinning brightly. His accent is heavy but his English doesn't sound too bad.

Ressler settles in for the (hopefully quick) ride.

When he arrives about fifteen minutes later and steps out, he breathes deeply and looks around, noting the throngs of tourists and locals. Children weave around him, laughing and speaking in a language he doesn't recognize and adults are taking pictures in front of the bell, ringing it and enjoying the monument fully, feeling nothing of the worry and excitement he feels.

 _I'm here_ , he thinks.  _I'm here where she was less than a day ago_.

It's the closest he's been in two months.


	3. Chapter 3

 

**May 17th, Myanmar, Hotel Mandalay - 1:45 PM Local Time**

Ressler is sitting in a cafe right beside the fanciest hotel within a mile of the Mingun bell. He sips his coffee, and flips open the cell phone he'd bought when he'd landed (he needed to look into getting an international plan for his iPhone, considering how much he's been out of the country in the last few months).

He dials Aram's number swiftly, and holds the flip phone to his ear.

"Agent Mojtabai," a tired voice answers, and Ressler can hear him clicking away on his computer. He knows that it's somewhere near 3 in the morning back in New York, and he feels a little bad for calling. "This'd better be Agent Ressler," Aram follows up his greeting with a big yawn. "It's almost dawn here."

"Sorry, Aram," Ressler apologizes. He folds the newspaper he was using to hide his face and turns away from any prying eyes. "I found a hotel that's promising. It's right up Reddington's alley - fancy, serves wine, and there weren't many questions asked when I tried to book a room without proper documents as to why I was in-country and no questions asked about the large stack of cash I showed. There's a good chance they're here."

"Awesome, dude. Look, I just got word. You may not be the only FBI agent in Myanmar - be on the lookout for help coming your way."

Ressler senses that Aram can't say much more (and if there are other people in the office at 3 AM he knows that whatever's going on is serious). "I'm going to say things; let me know when I'm right."

"Yes," Aram says, and he continue typing on his computer. Ressler can hear muted voices coming closer to Aram, so he isn't too surprised when the younger man starts spouting nonsense. "That's right, I'm searching for flights back now."

"I'm also assuming that the FBI agents coming to help might not be the friendliest," Ressler guesses, and Aram gives a non-committal "Mmm-hmm," so he continues. "You have someone there poking around, asking questions about where I am, and I'm guessing it's Connolly's replacement, that Smithson dick."

Aram laughs outright. "Yeah, the soonest flight is tomorrow."

"They flagged the hit on my passport, and Smithson came sniffing around, wanting to know why I was headed to Myanmar. You told him the most vague story you could, about us getting a lead that Liz and Reddington were in Myanmar. You did  _not_  tell him about the bell, did you?" Ressler sure hoped not, that was too specific a location. (Although, the hit on his passport would have registered from the airport only 10 miles from here, so regardless, any men Smithson sent wouldn't have too much ground to cover).

"Of  _course not,_  you'll fly first class."

 _Good_ , Ressler thought. Suddenly he felt a sense of urgency that he hadn't before when sipping his coffee. "I'm going to keep looking, Aram. Thanks for the heads up."

" _10 hours_ ," Aram said, and Ressler's mind begins spinning, trying to figure out what the time frame was related to. They'll be here in 10 hours, they left 10 hours ago, you have 10 hours to get the hell out? "The plane will land in the airport in 10 hours," Aram continues, sensing Ressler's frustration and confusion. "But your flight won't be until morning."

Awesome. He had 10 hours to find Liz, decide what the hell to do with her, and get our of Myanmar.

Ressler is about to say something to Aram - to thank him again - when he sees a flash of black fedora walking out of the hotel. He stutters on the words he was going to say, and his mouth falls open as he watches Reddington exit the building with Liz beside him. Her arm is looped through his, and they walk with purpose down the path leading to the street.

"Aram, I have to go. I have eyes on the target."

He hangs up without waiting for Aram to respond, flips his phone closed, and falls into line behind an older couple walking along the side of the street. Liz and Reddington are a mere 15 yards ahead of him, and he wants nothing more than to run, to grab her and ask her why the hell she left, why she left him and made him hunt her down - but he doesn't.  _Not yet_ , he tells himself. He knows he'll have a better chance once Liz is alone, apart from Reddington's prying eyes.

Swiping a hat from a nearby tourist stand, he tucks it over his blond hair and casts his eyes down, working hard to blend in as he follows behind them.

 _Be patient_ , he cautions himself, and he finds himself smiling as he walks across the street, trying to vary the distance between them so neither of them can catch on.

 _He finally found her_.

**May 17th, Mingun Bell, 11:45 PM**

They're leaving Myanmar tonight, and for some reason she can't explain, Liz suddenly feels the need to call Ressler. She feels incredibly homesick, tired of moving from place to place.

 _We've been_ _compromised_ , Reddington had said.  _FBI agents were spotted about ten miles away from here. We'll leave in an hour_.

Liz had narrowly escaped the room and knew for sure that she would be given a lecture on safety later, but for right now she didn't care. She was getting ready to relocate for the fourteenth time since she'd left New York and leaving the place she decided she liked so much more than the others, the place she felt comfortable, felt like leaving home all over again.

She swipes to unlock her phone, but her fingers still, shaking almost indiscernibly over the keypad, after touching Ressler's name.

 _Calling..._  the screen says, and she swipes angrily at her eyes, realizing as she jabs the 'end call' button that she's afraid to call him, afraid to  _need_  him, to need a connection to her past.

"Goddamn it," she growls, angry at herself for being so weak.

**...**

**...**

Ressler is watching her, and his chest tightens as he realizes she's started to cry. His phone flashes,  _incoming call_ , but stops just as soon as it starts. As he looks back and forth from his phone to Liz, he realizes that she had tried to call  _him_ , which shouldn't surprise him since he's been receiving calls from her for the last month, but watching her conflicted actions and realizing that she's  _crying_  as she tries to  _call him_  causes him to feel things he hasn't in quite a while.

Things he's a little afraid to feel, considering his mission here today is to arrest her and take her back to New York where he'll hand her over to the very people who tried to kill Reddington, who would certainly not fail if given another chance.

These feelings are beginning to complicate things.

Without thinking about it, he opens his phone and quickly dials the number he'd seen flash across his screen only moments before. After dialing, he looks up, watching her from about ten yards away, watching as her phone rings. He can see the confusion (it's not his normal number he's calling from) and all he can think is  _please, Liz, pick up your phone_.

By some small miracle, she does.

" _Hello_?" she whispers, and he can _tell_  she's been crying. Even if he couldn't see her face he'd know.

"Liz," he says, and holding himself in this spot  _hurts_. "Hi."

" _Hey_ ," she sniffles. " _I was just thinking about calling you._ "

"Oh, really?" he asks, and he wants nothing more than to go to her, but he can't - yet.

" _Yeah. We're moving again tonight_."

His heart clenches at the news  _He was just in time_. To do what, though? Arrest her? Grab her and run off? (He wishes, but he can't. He can't leave the FBI yet, not when he still needs to be there to help clear her name).

"Tell me about where you are," he says, and she hesitates, but he knows she's thinking about it  _because what the hell? As long as she's not too specific, it can't hurt, and besides, they're moving tonight anyway_.

" _It's really nice,"_  she says. Ressler watches her as she talks. She's walking slowly around the bell, running her fingers across it, and  _why does she like this specific location so much, anyway_? he wonders. " _Lots of green trees. Nice people. I can't speak the language - I should have paid more attention to foreign languages in high school - but the coffee is great._ "

"I bet," Ressler says, and he thinks maybe now is the time. He steps out from his hiding place, and whereas it was hard to hold himself still before, now it's hard for him to move. "Tell me about... your favorite place."

He's walking toward her, but he's moving slowly, and very quietly. He's certain she has no idea yet.

 _"There's a ... a famous monument,"_  she says, being as vague as possible as she taps on the bell with her pointer finger. He notices that she's alone, completely alone, because it's dark and the only people still on the street are walking with purpose, headed home or to a bar, or wherever. " _Lots of kids here during the day, playing around it. Not so much right now. I like it because it's a place that gathers all kinds around it. Old people, kids, parents, even busy locals stop by sometime. It's comforting. It reminds me of New York - the diversity of the population that this monument brings is reminiscent of what you'd see in New York, around the Twin Towers, or the Rockefeller building. It calls all types to it, and it's comforting to me_."

Ressler is ten feet away now, and he knows when he speaks she'll hear him.

"New York misses you, too, you know," he says quietly, and when she turns around in shock, his voice coming to her from two different directions, he smiles. "Hi, Liz."

He can tell she wants to run.  _She's been found!_  But she seems glued to the spot, her eyes wide and her hands trembling. She drops her phone as tears begin to well in her eyes.

He moved forward quickly then, reaching out and grabbing her. She resists at first (is he going to take her with him? Handcuff her? Tie her up?) but then melts into his embrace as his large, warm hands reach up and press her head to his shoulder.

"Ressler," she says, and she's grabbing his shirt in her fists, holding on tightly. And then, when she shock is worn off, she pulls back the slightest bit and looks at him in panic. "Ressler, you can't be here. You... you need to leave! I can't come back to New York, I sh- I shot -"

Ressler cuts her off by pressing his hand over her lips, whispering, "Shhh," as he steps back the slightest bit. "I know. I know what happened, Cooper filled me in. I know he was threatening us all, and while I can't say that I'm okay with you murder... you  _shooting_  Connolly, I know you must have had a reason. Liz, you're a good person - you  _always_  have a reason. And I know, I know that I can't be here much longer. But I needed to see you."

Liz looks at him in shock. "You're not going to arrest me?"

Ressler sighs, coming to terms with a truth he knew two months ago when he let her escape the Post Office. "Liz, I can't arrest you now any more than I could the first time. I can't - I know what will happen if I do."

They stand in silence for a few seconds more, then Liz is speaking in a rush. "Ressler, I have to go, I can't stay here. But you need to know - back in New York, Reddington called together a bunch of journalists to help him expose the truth of the Cabal. He showed them the Fulcrum, the data on it that proves so many in high up positions are corrupting the government from within. If ... if you want to help me, to clear my name, work with them. They can - they have a little more power, because they're not working from within."

"I will," Ressler promises her. He reaches out, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She tightens her grip on his arm, then releases it. Her eyes are darting all around; she looks like a deer in the headlights, and Ressler wishes that their few seconds together weren't filled with panic and terror.

"I miss you," he says honestly, and she's caught off guard once again. "We all do, Liz. It's not the same without you. God, I even miss  _Reddington_."

Liz laughs, and focuses on him for a second more. "I miss you, too," she says quietly.

At first, she can't understand why he doesn't respond, why he doesn't say anything else. Why, in fact, the expression on his face goes from happy to shocked and pained in less than a second.

The sounds of the gunshot catches up with her a second too late, and by the time she realizes what has happened, Ressler has crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from a wound on his back.

" _RESSLER_!

The last thing he sees before he blacks out is  _Reddington_ , running toward them and grabbing Liz —  _bastard better have had a good reason for shooting me_ , Ressler thinks tiredly, head spinning as he tries to look around. Then,  _God, that hurts. I hate gunshot wounds_ , as he lets his head fall to the ground and sweet nothingness overtake him.


	4. Chapter 4

_And oh yeah: Don. Man, watching him run the room tonight. Quarterbacking the manhunt. Stoic, focused on the mission. He has most of the team fooled: but Samar and I can tell. he's being turned through the ringer. I don't know how long he can keep going on like this. And, what's worse, I don't know the alternative. Because searching for Liz, searching for the answer, staying the course - that might be all he has left.- **Amir Arison (Aram's Notes, NBC . com)**_

* * *

**May 18th, 12:32 AM (Myanmar, on Reddington's private plane)**

" _What the hell was that?!"_  Liz shouts, moving to Reddington (to punch him, slap him, beat him bloody? she's not sure). He grabs onto her wrists before she can get too close, understanding her intentions clearly.

"Calm down, Lizzie."

"I will not calm down! Holy shit, you  _shot_  Ressler!"

These words have been running through her mind on repeat for the past thirty minutes, but she hasn't had a chance to spit them out before now - running to board a private jet to escape the FBI (yet again) leaves little time for conversation.

"Yes, I did," Reddington agrees, and it's something about his perfectly calm demeanor that finally makes her take a deep breath in. "I did it to save him."

Liz pulls her arms from Reddington's grasp, shifting away from him. She glares at him, because her heart is still racing and she's still pissed that he  _shot her partner_. But she also recognizes on some level that, if Red isn't upset or worried, logically she shouldn't be either (because she knows that Reddington has developed some kind of attachment to Ressler throughout the whole Audrey debacle). However, logic is not in control and she still wants very much to punch him.

"What?" she asks breathlessly (confused), holding her left fist into her palm.

"I shot Ressler to save him. The FBI was on your trial, they'd been closing in on your position for several minutes. They may have already seen too much," he warns, and she swallows thickly (because if they know that Ressler wasn't going to arrest her, he'll probably be removed from his position and possibly be blackmailed to keep him quiet). "Very touching, that scene was, but  _very_ stupid. Lizzie, what the hell were you thinking?"

She doesn't respond, because she wasn't really thinking. Or, she was thinking that she  _knew_  calling and seeing him was dangerous, wrong, but that she didn't want to stop.

"Oh, well. At least if he gets publicly outed for his little addiction, we can pull him to our side. He'd be less help here than in New York, but at least he wouldn't be useless."

Liz wants to punch him all over again, because Ressler is not useless.

She's also still a little worried for his safety.

"He'll be OK?" she asks quietly, and Reddington lays a hand on her arm (she doesn't shrug him off this time) and smiles softly.

"I made sure to shoot  _just_  close enough to major arteries and vital organs that it will look like I was going for a kill shot, but yes, he should be just fine. Lots of blood loss - and only 2% of the world has Dear Donald's blood type, it's practically like he's robbing a bank! - but he'll recover, as long as his doctors are competent."

"Strangely, that's not very reassuring," Liz deadpans, but despite her words she feels herself calming down.  _The FBI has great doctors_ , she tells herself.  _Ressler is strong, he'll be fine_.

He has to be.

**May 22nd, 10:00 AM (New York Time)**

"Sleeping beauty awakens!"

Ressler remembers Audrey comparing him waking up to a bear waking from hibernation early, and waking from a drug induced sleep after coming out of major surgery seems to be no exception. He's cranky and confused and everything  _hurts_.

"  _'the hell_?" he questions groggily, and tries very hard to focus his vision as he remembers  _oh, yeah, Reddington shot him_. His surroundings are blurry and his throat is  _on fire_. "Water," he croaks, and the blurry shape he's fairly certain is Aram leans over and suddenly a cool glass is pressed to his lips and he takes small sips of the glorious water offered.

"They pulled out the intubation tube last time you woke up," Aram says, confirming Ressler's suspicions. He's had more than one of those tubes down his throat, and it never got more pleasant. When Ressler makes a vaguely confused noise, Aram continues. "You were only up for like three minutes and you were pretty out of it. I'm not surprised you don't remember."

"How long?" Ressler manages, and he sounds like a 95-year-old smoker. He coughs to try and clear his voice, but that hurts like a  _bitch_  so he doesn't do it again.

Aram understands anyway. "It's been a few days," he says. "You were at a hospital in Myanmar for two days, while they operated and removed the bullet. They kept you until you were stable and shipped you back here. Samar and I have been taking shifts for about 36 hours."

"Samar?" Ressler questions, raising his eyebrow. Because Aram has never called Agent Navabi by her fist name (in his presence). Aram blushes beautifully and it makes the pain caused by laughing worth it.

"I-I mean, Agent Navabi, of course," he backpedals, and then winces with Ressler when a particularly loud chuckle makes the man moan in pain. Ressler doesn't make a move to speak again (pain) so Aram fills the silence. "You saw her, didn't you?"

His voice is quiet, as if he thinks they may be being watched, or listened to (and for once in Ressler's life, it's probably the correct amount of paranoia). He nods minutely and closes his eyes. Aram whistles quietly, and grins as Ressler turns to look at him again.

"We knew - Agent Navabi and I - you know," he says quietly. "That you let her go. I mean, it was obvious to those who know you and Liz. The cameras were out for just long enough, and Liz, she's good - but you're a faster runner. I know you caught her."

Ressler grunts, because grunting doesn't hurt as much and also Aram is a know-it-all.

"We're on your side, you know."

The room is silent for a few minutes.

"We know how hard it is for you, being in charge, leading the manhunt."

Ressler closes his eyes again, because he doesn't want to be having this (one-sided) conversation but the pain to tell Aram to shut the hell up is worse than laying and listening. So he pretends he's not listening, but really he's feeling something strange in his chest, listening to Aram talk, knowing that the younger man had guessed at his struggle and had been supporting him this entire time.

"And I know that if you weren't in pain, you'd be slapping me upside the head and telling me to shut up, but because you're an invalid, I can finally say all of this."

Ressler wants to chuckle, but  _pain_  and also he doesn't want to give Aram the satisfaction.

"Most people think I'm just the computer guy - and I do know my way around a computer, and it's sexy as hell - but I notice things, too. I spend a lot of time listening and working on my laptop and no one  _knows_ I'm listening. But I'm guessing that, right now, finding Liz - finding answers - it's the only think keeping you going."

And  _damn i_ _t,_ grown men do NOT cry in front of each other, so Ressler bites the inside of his cheek. He's drugged, in pain, and missing his partner, damn it. His partner who was driven by the system to kill an (admittedly evil) man and run away. It was his  _fucking job_  to hunt her down, and Aram should have been a profiler because  _damn_  he hit that one on the head.

"Just know we're on your side, no matter what," Aram finishes, and then he reaches out to squeeze Ressler's (uninjured) shoulder. He pats his shoulder awkwardly a few times and stands up. "Gonna get coffee," he says, but Ressler knows he's just being observant again because it takes just about the same amount of time for Aram to exit the room as it does for Ressler to lose control of his tears.

He rolls his head back and tries to get comfortable as he resolutely ignores the wetness on his cheeks.

He falls asleep before Aram comes back.

**May 22nd, Limerick, Ireland, 2:35 PM**

Though Liz has always wanted to visit Ireland, she finds she cares less about the scenery as they drive through the small, sleepy town as she does glaring at Reddington.

"I need to know he's fine."

"My people have taken care of it - he came out of surgery two days ago and they report he's woken up a few times since then - like I've told you."

Liz shakes her head. She's been having this fight with Reddington for a few days now, and even though Reddington assures her that Dembe had personally seen Ressler cussing the nurses out as they tried to make him walk around, she knows her heart won't stop beating painfully in her chest until she talks to him herself.

"No more calling," Reddington says firmly, and Liz feels like she's twelve.

"Oh, my God," she exclaims, throwing her hands into the air and turning to look out of the window. She knows - as does Reddington - that the first chance she has to get a hold of a phone, she  _will_  call, damn it, and he will have to physically restrain her if he wants to keep her from calling.

She stares angrily at rain soaked streets (and sheep) for a total of seven minutes before Reddington sighs loudly.

"One call. Sixty seconds. Toss the burner," he says.

She smiles triumphantly (and tries not to think about the fact that she won this fight by acting like a petulant child). She's about to open her mouth to ask when she should make the call (because she does recognize that Reddington is the resident expert on running away and staying hidden) when his own burner rings.

Reddington opens his phone and holds it to his ear, not offering a greeting. Liz knows that this is because Dembe should be the only one with the number (all contact to Reddington is going through Dembe right now) and that he knows to speak first. After listening, Reddington sighs, thanks Dembe, and closes his phone.

Liz stares at Reddington inquiringly. "What's going on?"

"We lost a journalist," Reddington says, and Liz can tell he's sad because they mischievous glint is gone from his eyes and the wrinkles around his eyes are more pronounced as he scowls grimly. "One of the more... resilient. He was leading the information hunt. Last I heard, he was suspicious that not only was Connolly - the assistant director of the FBI - involved in this great conspiracy, but also the secretary of defense and the Vice."

Liz gasps, because this is new information to her. "Oh, my God."

Reddington nods grimly. "He was convinced that the Vice had a plan to get rid of the President. God, Liz, can you  _imagine_  the Cabal with that much power? Obviously, if the president were to tragically perish, the Vice would take his place."

Liz nods, thinking that if their journalist was right then she might never get back home. "He must have been right, or at least his digging was scaring someone," she says, and Reddington nods, because he was clearly murdered to cover up whatever he found.

"If the Cabal has someone with that much power, Liz, I can't even  _fathom_  the fallout."

The thoughts that accompany Liz to the next town haunt her dreams for the next few nights.

**May 23rd, New York, 2:03 AM**

He was uncomfortable and tired and a little cranky - he couldn't sleep, yet Samar was sleeping like the dead five feet away in an uncomfortable waiting room chair. He was also in pain despite having had five days to heal since being shot.

He's about to give in and press the 'call' button for some sleeping medicine at the very least, if not painkillers, when his cell phone rings. He winces, because he's sitting on it, and getting to it requires he reach around his own body.

Grunting in pain, he reaches down and grabs his phone. He sees  _unknown number_  flash across the screen, and his heart beats a little faster as he swipes to answer it and presses it to his ear. "Hello," he breaths, shifting again to take pressure off of his right shoulder.

 _"Ress,"_  the voice says, and it's the best thing he's heard all damn day.

"Liz," he says happily, and he sighs as he leans back on the bed, closing his eyes. "You're alive."

_"I wasn't the one who was shot!"_

Ressler chuckles. "About that. You tell Reddington he'd better have a damn good reason for shooting me."

 _"I will."_ She pauses.  _"He told me sixty seconds. I don't think I can listen to him this time."_

"I promise I'm not tracking you from my hospital bed," Ressler says, then continues (because it's highly possible that someone else might try), "I'll even have Aram destroy my SIM card with the record of this call on it if you'll keep talking."

He's a little desperate, and she must hear an edge to his voice, because she asks,  _"Are you doing alright?"_

Ressler sighs, and answers truthfully. "I'm healing. I'm in pain - yesterday I told them to cut me off the good stuff,"  _because I liked it a little too much_ , he adds silently. He knows she'll understand.

Liz is silent for a minute.  _"I'm afraid I may never get back home_ ," she finally confides in him.

"You have to, you  _will_ ," he says in determination. "I can't lose you, Liz. I don't have much else going for me here. I need my partner."

 _"I need you, too,"_  she admits, and because they're straying into new and uncomfortable territory, Ressler changes the conversation.

"Tell me about some of the places you've been. Not where you are, of course, but some of your favorites."

He can feel his eyes drooping as Liz's voice washes over him.  _"We went to England first, and..."_

The last thing he hears before he falls to sleep, phone slipping from his fingers, is Liz talking about tea and it comforts him in a way he's not sure how to describe or how to deal with.

So he doesn't - he sleeps instead.  _It's the most comfortable he's been in months_.

**May 23rd, 5:12 PM (Unknown Location)**

"He found them - obviously he's still useful!" The voice is sharp and feminine, annoyed at having to explain herself. "He's the only one who  _has_  found them. It's been two months, and none of our idiotic men have managed it!"

There are three bodies in the room - the outspoken female and two men, older and calmer.

"He  _did_  find her," the first man agrees slowly.

The second man counters, "However, he has no intentions of arresting her. He's already working behind our backs. He did not inform us of this latest tip - he followed it himself, and  _found them_. If it had been our men, they'd be in custody."

"I'm glad you see it my way," the lady says, smiling suddenly, her irritated facade gone as she takes the upper-hand in the conversation. "He is useful -  _very_  much so. He found Agent Keen and he can do it again. But we need someone on the inside to keep us informed, to let us know as soon as he has a lead. We need a man in the Post Office, able to keep an eye on Acting Director Donald Ressler."

The first man looks thoughtful. "We could send someone in, someone to work with them." He mulls the idea over.

"Good thought," the woman says, "However, it won't work. Agent Ressler will not trust anyone from the outside. He won't tell them anything useful and we'll be right back where we began."

The man sighs, clearly annoyed at having to play twenty questions with the younger woman. "Then what, Yvonne, do you suggest?"

The woman grins mischievously. "Why, I thought you'd never ask." She waves her hand in the general direction of the doorway just as it bursts open. It takes a minute for the two older men to figure out what's going on, as the room is suddenly full of struggling and grunting as two additional men haul a kicking and screaming third man into the room.

The man is forced to his knees, and a bag is ripped off of his head, revealing dark black hair and angry eyes. The man is gagged and is sporting a black eye and a split lip (most likely earned as a result of his struggling).

"Meet Aram Mojabai. Our inside man."


	5. Chapter 5

 

**Unknown Location, Unspecified Time**

"Meet Aram Mojabai. Our inside man."

The room is silent for several moments - even Aram is afraid to speak or to move. He'd already received plenty of _encouragement_ to stay still on the ride over. Wincing, he realizes that he needs to avoid needing any more motivation if he'd like to leave in one piece.

 _I should have taken the night shift, let Samar go home_ , he internally moans, realizing his mistake in leaving the hospital while it was dark and no one was around. It'd taken them less than thirty seconds to drive up, grab him, stuff him in the car, and knock him out. By the time he'd woken up, he'd been moved to an unknown location and had no recollection of how he'd gotten there, other than the bump on his head and the pounding in his ears.  _Although_ , he back-pedals internally,  _if it hadn't been me, it could have been her_.

It gives him a small bit of courage, knowing he was the one here and she was safe (even if he hadn't known his actions at the time might have saved her this experience).

"He doesn't look very convinced," one of the men comments after a while, and the lady - Yvonne - laughs. The sounds is a high, tinkling chime and it makes Aram's head pound even harder (he's afraid he might have a concussion).

"He will be."

"No," Aram speaks up, and he realizes a second too late that, really, keeping ones mouth shut when one has been kidnapped and beaten up is  _really very smart_. His voice starts to shake, but damn it, he will  _not_  be convinced to be a spy. "I don't think I will be convinced, actually."

He winces before the blow hits, because he knows it's coming. He's left reeling from a blow to his left ear, and the ringing is now louder than the voices around him.  _Oh, well,_ he thinks.  _I didn't want to listen to them anyway_.

He's woozy and more than a little frightened now. The adrenaline that had been pumping through him seems to be wearing off and he can feel every muscle in his body aching, his split lip, the headache, and what's sure to be some bruised ribs. When he'd first woken up and fought back, he hadn't yet taken stock of his surroundings, of his situation.

"We weren't really going to ask your opinion," Yvonne says. "We need information on Donald Ressler, and  _you_  can get it for us. Or," she smiles, and while her face is pretty, the way she's staring at him, caressing the tip of a knife (where did that come from? Probably another form of  _encouragement_ ) makes her seem sadistic and ugly. "Dear Aram, you really don't want to cross us. You've had... friends who have tried that in the past." Her voice is soothing now, her smile widening as she reaches down and cups his jaw. He wrenches it from her grasp, his heart pounding, his breath coming in fast gasps. "We are  _telling_  you. You will go into work and find out what our dear Donald knows, and report back to us."

"I - "

Aram is shaking now, and only part of it is for show (because he knew when he first woke up he'd have to give in to their demands, because - ).

"I don't know how to contact you," he says in defeat, and he thinks he's done a fairly good job of acting afraid (because he is) because Yvonna begins her tinkling laugh again and the two men who are standing in the shadows smile and share a look.

"Don't worry yourself about the details," Yvonne says, and as she reaches down with the knife, Aram winces. When he doesn't feel the blade in his skin - when, in fact, he feels his hands fall free - he gasps in a breath of surprise. "We'll be in contact."

The bag is shoved over his head once more and the man says roughly, "Fight me and I'll make sure you have an accident on the way home."

Aram doesn't fight him.

Instead, he tries to memorize how first his body and then the car is moving - but he can't keep up. He does know it takes about twelve minutes, and then he's being shoved out of the van, bag still over his head, onto the sidewalk outside of the hospital.

 _What the hell could he do now_?

**May 25th, 7:10 AM - Bethesda Hospital**

"Let me go, I'm not a fucking invalid," Ressler growls, and Samar tries very hard to hide her smile. She has to bite her lip, but she raises her hands in the air and takes a step back as Ressler stands to his feet. He's surprisingly steady, but she supposes that's mostly because he was shot in the shoulder, not the leg. His arm is wrapped and tied to his chest with a complicated looking sling, and he's grumbling in annoyance as he tries to tuck his belongings - wallet, keys, phone - into the pockets of the clothing Aram had brought him (the clothing he'd worn that night had, of course, been cut off of him in the emergency room).

"Ready to go home?" Samar asks, handing the wheelchair back to the nurse, who is also grinning at Ressler's crankiness (after five days, they're all immune).

"Ready to go back to work," he counters, and Samar rolls her eyes.

"You've been shot. Take a day off, for God's sake."

Ressler grunts in response and tries to shrug his jacket on. After failing twice and knocking Samar's hand away, he gives up, slings it over his injured shoulder, and turns around with a sigh.

"I'm ready to go."

_Because he's a little bit invalid and he can't drive himself, goddamnit._

"Right! To the post office," Samar says with entirely too much cheer for Donald Ressler's liking. He follows her out of the hospital, a little slower than he normally would, and takes in a deep breath of fresh air as they walk outside.

 _God, he'd missed the sun_.

"Good to be outside, huh?" Samar asks, and she almost opens the door of the SUV for him but thinks better of it (better to let the man struggle and be in pain than wound his pride).

"Good to be out of that damn hospital," he agrees, and climbs clumsily into the car. "Any news on Keen or Reddington while I was stuck in there?"

 _Not unless you count that phone call I overheard last night_.

"No, nothing to speak of. They've disappeared again."

"Huh."

They're silent for the majority of the drive. It's not until Samar is about to pull into the parking garage that Ressler's phone rings. He looks and sees  _unknown number_  flash across the screen, and he's about to pick it up because  _she called again_ , and then he remembers he's not alone.

"Gonna get that?" Samar asks, raising an eyebrow as she flicks on her turn signal. She turns into the garage, and Ressler is about to say,  _nah, it's not important, I'll call back later_ , but it  _is_  important, and he might  _not_  be able to call back later, and also -

_"Just know we're on your side, no matter what."_

He swipes to answer his phone and presses it to his ear, a lump in his throat (will Samar be as receptive as Aram was? Will she report him?) and breathes, "Liz," into the phone, ignoring Samar as she slams on the brake a little too hard as she pulls into a spot. He hears her make a small, choked noise (regardless of the fact she knew about his previous phone call, the fact that he just answered a call from Liz in her presence surprises her).

 _"Not Liz,"_  an amused voice answers, and Ressler immediately panics.

"Oh, my God, Reddington, is she alright? Why the hell are you calling me?"  _She must be hurt, caught, dead —_

_"Calm yourself, Donald, Lizzie is just fine."_

He relaxes a little, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can open his door. Samar falls into step beside him as he walks (slowly, he has to finish this call before getting inside) to the elevator.

"Then why the hell are you calling?"

_"I'm calling because you've been compromised. Someone in your inner circle has turned against you."_

Ressler knows that a look of confusion passes over his face, but he waves Samar off when she gives him an inquiring glance. "Not possible," he says, because what he considers his 'inner circle' is himself, Aram, and Samar, and the aforementioned two have been living with him at the hospital for the past week, save for short trips home to sleep and shower.

_"Oh, it's completely possible, and in fact very much true. I believe that someone known to me as Yvonne has been talking to one of yours. You're not safe - you can trust no one. Our sixty seconds are up, Donald, but I hope you'll believe me when I say you can trust no one."_

The line goes dead, and Ressler takes more time than necessary ending the call and locking his phone. He's trying to organize his thoughts before looking up to meet Samar's eyes.

She's staring at him, one eyebrow raised.

"That was Reddington," he confirms.

"Right. And, how long has this been going on?"

"That's the first time he's called me."

They're silent as they walk into the elevator and Ressler presses the button for the post office floor.

"He says we've been compromised."

"Reddington is very trustworthy. If he says we have been, we have been."

Ressler sighs - that was what he was afraid of, even if he doesn't want to believe it. "Fine. Then that probably means we can't talk about this at work. Proceed as normal throughout our day, we'll talk after work."

Samar nods, and they both step off of the elevator.

The sight that greets him confirms everything Raymond Reddington said to him and causes him to falter in his steps.

 _You're being watched, don't change your behavior_ , he cautions himself.  _Trust your training, go with your instincts._  Instead of cornering the man immediately, he walks straight up to Aram Mojabai and rests his free hand on the desk the younger man works at.

A black eye and a horrifically split lip greet Ressler, and as he hears Samar gasp behind him, he knows that he is not alone in his surprise (or, he would venture to guess, his immediate suspicion).

"I need a ride home tonight," Ressler says, and he hopes he's not coming on too strong - he doesn't want to scare the man off. But he  _does_  want to talk and it's not safe here, and if the state of Aram's face is anything to go by, they're being watched and whoever is doing the watching is a force to be reckoned with.

"I - I can do that," Aram says, and his eyes flicker past Ressler's, no doubt to meet Agent Navabi's gaze. Ressler leaves them to it, and as he reaches his office and looks down on the two of them (Navabi gently cupping Aram's jaw in her small hands, delicately probing the injuries to his face) he feels real fear (not just disbelief and anger at the existence of a shadow government) of the Cabal and the many secrets they hold, the power they have over every single one of them, the corruption and how deep it runs.

And he hopes that he hasn't realized the hold the Cabal has over them too late to be of any help to Aram.

**May 25th, 7:30 PM - The Post Office Parking Garage**

"What the hell? Did they get to you? Are you  _reporting on us_?"

Ressler is angry and terrified and before he realizes what he's doing, he has Aram pressed up against the side of his car, fingers tightly grasping the younger man's collar, holding tightly (and probably making it difficult for him to breathe).

"What the hell happened?" he demands when Aram doesn't speak immediately.

"Stop! Stop!" Aram wheezes, and Ressler drops him in a huff, turning on his heel and running a hand though his hair, messing up his carefully styled locks. When he turns around, he's not so much angry as completely and totally terrified. He's scared for his team, for himself, for  _Liz_ , for the fact that it's looking like the corruption runs too deep to ever clear her name. "Stop, please, let me explain."

Ressler takes a deep breath, running his hand though his hair again. "In the car," he says, because he's fairly sure it's not bugged. Regardless, as they climb in, he pulls out a frequency jammer and turns it on. Aram starts his car, pulling out of the garage before he begins to speak.

"They grabbed me when I left the hospital," he says quietly. "I fought, they beat me up. I knew from the moment they grabbed me, I'd have to give in."

Ressler scoffs, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. "Why?" he asks, and it's part sarcastic and part interested - Aram is a smart man, he wouldn't give up unless he had to,  _right_?

Aram laughs dryly. "Because there are too many of them and we don't yet understand how they're working. We have  _no idea_  who is leading this... this  _cabal_. We have no idea who holds what information over us, and if we don't do what they want, we have no idea who they'll kill or frame."

Both men are silent for a moment, before Aram sighs and says, "And ... I care about Agent Navabi too much - and I think they know that. I was scared that if I didn't say I'd report on you, they'd frame her, or hurt her, or  _kill_  her. Ressler, I  _can't_ do what you've been doing. I can't lose Samar like you - we - lost Liz. I'm not that strong."

Ressler doesn't respond, because part of him wants to yell that it's not the same with him and Liz (but it is, just in a different way, yet no less intense) and the other part of him still wants to yell at Aram for being weak and stupid, and -  _but he won't_ , because if he'd had a choice in the matter, in what had happened to Liz, he might have tried that path, too. At least she'd still be here working with them.

"We'll figure it out," Ressler says finally, relaxing back into the seat and wincing when he finally realizes how much strain he put on his arm when he pushed Aram up against the car. "We always do, right?"

Aram tries to smile, but it's clear to Ressler that it's fake. The smile doesn't reach his eyes, and he can tell that Aram is stressed and scared. "Yeah, we do, I guess."

It's a pity neither man believes the lie they're telling themselves.


	6. Chapter 6

**May 15th , Ressler’s Apartment, 9:00 PM**

Most of the city is beginning to quiet down as Aram slowly pulls up outside of Ressler’s apartment building. There are still cabs on the street, and the busses still run (do they ever stop, in the city that never sleeps?) but less and less people are walking the sidewalks or walking in groups from place to place. The sky is dark - the kind of black blanket drowning out the stars that only happens before a storm - and Aram knows that tonight will not be restful for anyone on his team - especially Ressler as he deals with everything weighing down on him.

 _I’ll need to let the dog in tonight_ , he reminds himself silently as he shifts the SUV into ‘park’ and leans back heavily into his seat. Ressler reaches for the door handle, but both men pause, knowing there’s more to be said - more to be figured out - but neither knows how to broach the topic of conversation.

“We need a plan,” Aram says finally, brushing a hand through his already messy hair. “I mean, it’s all well and good that we normally figure these things out, but, man, I feel like we’re in too deep this time to move forward blindly.”

Ressler agrees with a sigh, drops his hand from his door handle, and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. We need a plan. Especially since you’re in danger now - and Samar, as well, if they know as much as you think they do. They _will_ try and use her for leverage, as their demands get harder and more dangerous and damning, and as you become more hesitant to follow through.”

Aram smiles sadly, nodding. “I’ve not been very good at hiding what I’ve been feeling for Agent Navabi, huh? We went out for Sushi a few months ago, after Leonard Caul, and after that I just gave up being subtle in hopes she’d notice. I think everyone else did, as well.”

“You got that right!” Ressler jokes, bumping Aram’s shoulder with his own. “Liz and I have a bet -”

He falls silent, because he’s suddenly thinking of Liz and how she would have won the bet, because he had said Aram and Samar would get together several weeks ago, and Liz had told him no way, that they’d dance around the elephant in the room until everyone else got sick of it and intervened. She’d bet they’d get together sometime in June, which was only a few weeks away, and it was looking like she’d be right - even Aram wasn’t dumb enough to dance around something as fragile as love when it looked like the world would be ending very soon (or, at least, their world as they knew it).

“You alright there?” Aram asks as the silence continues, and Ressler nods. “Speaking of people being not too subtle about things -”

Ressler cuts him off, because they weren’t talking about him, thank you very much. “Plan, Aram. Focus.”

“Right. So, I agreed to leak information on you. They know that you found a lead that led you to Mr. Reddington and Liz, and they’re upset because if their people had known, they would have gotten there first and arrested them.”

Ressler’s blood runs cold, because they’re right - they would have, and Liz and Reddington would be in the system, locked in a box where he could never see or speak to them again. He hadn't thought about it like that, and the thought is  _terrifying_.

“They want me to update them on any information you have so that, next time, they can -”

“Arrest them first,” Ressler says quietly, and it seems for a moment like there’s no way out. The next time he gets a lead, Aram will tell the Cabal, and then Liz ... Liz will-

“Agent Ressler, Agent Ressler!” Aram calls, and Ressler hadn’t noticed until that moment that he was clenching his fists so tight that he’d broken skin, his fingernails slicing through his own flesh and drawing blood. “Agent Ressler, are you ok?” Aram asks, more gently this time as Ressler unclenches his fists and shakily wipes the blood onto his slacks. He’s breath is coming in fast pants and his his heart is beating wildly.

“I - yes. No,” he admits, and then, “I’m fucking _terrified_. Aram, how can I keep doing this job, knowing that if I find Liz, I’ll be turning her over to _them_? They won’t let her out of this alive, they’ll make her into an example. And yes, she did kill that bastard, but under different circumstances, we would have ruled that as necessary. I mean, _fuck_ , Connolly was probably _on the blacklist!_ ” He takes a breath, eyes darting around the car wildly. “I believe in the system, Aram. I always have. I’ve followed the rules, because not following the rules causes people to get hurt, to _die_. I’ve seen people gunned down because they didn’t wait, because they didn’t follow a rule, because they were trying to be a hero and save someone even though regulations dictate that they stay behind, that they let that person die. I’ve seen _hundreds_ , no _thousands_ of people die because of one person’s actions, because they didn’t follow orders. And Liz - God, she scares me, because she _doesn’t_ believe in the system. She is a hero, she saves people and doesn’t care about her own life and _fuck_ , that’s scary. And what’s even more scary is I don’t think I believe in the system anymore, either. It’s so fucked up I don’t even know where to start.”

Aram is silent, and Ressler doesn’t blame the younger man. He’d let out two years of frustrations (frustrations that had begun growing around the time he’d met Liz, and watched her run the team in her own way, ignoring regulations and rules and doing what she did for the good of the people).

“We need to decide what you and tell them and what you need to keep silent, and how we can do that without getting you killed,” Ressler finally says, because Aram is speechless and probably a little wary (frightened?) of Ressler in his current (slightly crazed) state.

“Yeah,” he finally agrees. “Okay. So, we probably won’t have any more leads for now, it seems like their trail has gone cold. So that’s good. I can update Yvonne - that’s what she called herself - on your attempts, hopefully placate her for a while.”

“Good,” Ressler says. Then he sighs, “I have something I need to do, and we can probably safely leak some of it to them, because they must know something - one of the journalists died and it _had_ to be them. Reddington, before he left, put together a group of fourteen of the most well-known journalists in this country. He showed them the fulcrum and told them about the Cabal. Only six, to my knowledge, stayed behind to try and reveal the truth. One of them died last week, according to Liz. I have a meeting set up to talk with one of the remaining journalists. Liz begged me to work with them, said that they’d be able to help, and I trust her. The guy who died - Liam Thatcher - was on to something big, and he shared it with this journalist chick. I’m meeting her tomorrow.”

Aram nods. “I can probably give them the cliff notes version of that, and they’ll be happy. I can say you’re planning on meeting with them tomorrow, but I don’t know when, and I bet if you get Mr. Reddington’s man to take you, they won’t be able to follow and it won’t look like it’s my fault.”

Ressler ponders this as he gathers his bag, keys, and wallet with one hand. He nods, slinging the bag over his shoulder and reaches for the door again. “Hopefully that works,” he says, and as he climbs out of the car, he switches the scrambler off (he’s pretty sure that if they’re following Aram his car and home are probably bugged).

“See you tomorrow,” he says, looking pointedly at the scrambler to let Aram know he shouldn’t talk about what they know anymore.

“Right. I’ll pick you up at 7,” Aram confirms, and Ressler thanks him before walking up to his apartment.

He manages to call Dembe and arrange for a ride to wherever the journalists are staying for the time being (Dembe is keeping them well hidden, no doubt a talent ingrained from following Reddington around for 19 years) before collapsing into bed (on his good side) and falling asleep almost immediately.

_**May 16th, Unspecified Location (Café), 5:00 PM** _

Ressler is too nervous to eat anything, so he orders a cup of coffee instead of the dinner he’s sure he needs. (Did he eat last night? The last meal he remembers was at the hospital, and that could barely be called food). He knows he’s going to need food soon or risk not being on the top of his game (which he considers a constant necessity, considering he could need to be ready to follow a lead or lose a follower at any second).

“Donnie?”

Ressler chuckles at the name - _clearly_ Dembe had told Reddington of his plans and the older man had called and talked to this woman. He looks up and sees a younger woman, probably in her late twenties (God, how old was he that he considered an almost-thirty woman ‘young’? Not that old, he’d blame it on the fact that he _felt_ like he was a hundred years old). She had bright red hair, blue eyes, and seemed nervous beyond belief.

“That’s not my name,” he says, and she suddenly looks terrified, like she might have approached the wrong person. He continues, “Let me guess: Mr. Reddington told you to call me that.”

“Oh, yeah,” she chuckles, and she seems less nervous as she sits down across from him. “Should I call you Ressler then? He said you were Donnie Ressler.”

_Bastard. First he shoots me and then makes someone call me ‘Donnie’._

“No. Call me Don,” he says, uncomfortable because _she_ is the only one that calls him Ressler, or the only person he cares enough about to recall. Reddington calls him Donald, Aram always calls him ‘sir’ or ‘Agent Ressler’, same with Agent Navabi. Keen was the only one that referred to him solely by his last name.

“Right. Don.”

The poor girl looks like she’s about to shake out of her skin, so Ressler sighs and takes pity on her.

“Don’t be scared - I don’t bite. Liz - Agent Keen, that is, a … personal friend of Mr. Reddington - she asked me to speak with you. She said that Mr. Reddington pulled all of you together and showed you some … information. She said you could help.”

“Right. Right, well, my partner, Liam… he… well, you can understand why I’m nervous,” she says, and she offers him a small, shy smile. He returns it, trying to put her at ease (because the sooner he can get the information, the sooner he can go home). “He must have been caught. I - he shared the information with me. Here,” she says, and she pushes a file across the table. He picks it up and opens it, flipping through the pages.

“Wow,” he whistles, and having heard that the Vice President and the Secretary of Defence were involved in the Cabal is very different than seeing their pictures and having the evidence in his hands. “Wow,” he says again, because ‘ _Vice President Cole Mathewson  appears to control the outpost in the United States_ ’  is a phrase he never thought he’d read.

“Yeah. From what we can gather, from the information Mr. Reddington left us and our own snooping, he was heard on a conference call with some people with pretty heavy accents. They were talking about a plan - it’s on the next page. Anyway, my source, he said that they mentioned at least three different countries on the call - France, England, and China. World leaders everywhere… they’re corrupt.”

“Source?” Ressler asks, because he’s wary as fuck of anyone else being involved in this. “You have a source?”

“Yeah, inside the White House. He overheard the plan, that’s what prompted Liam and I to begin researching Vice President Mathewson.”

“Do you trust this source?”

_Because I sure as hell don’t._

“With my life,” the woman assures him, and Ressler sighs, because though it seems good enough for her, it’s not for him. He’ll have to take everything in this file with a grain of salt. “He and I go way back. He works on the President’s security detail, and of course when he heard of this plan he thought for sure it was a conspiracy. He tried to tell the others on the detail, but they laughed him off - I mean, the Vice planning the President’s murder? Come on.”

“Right. So he came to you instead.”

Ressler flips to the next page, and quickly scans the firsthand account of what was overheard.

_Vice President Cole Mathewson was overheard telling others that ‘the plan had been put into action’ and that Mathewson would soon take over the presidency._

“He came to me and told me what he’d heard. He knows that I am an … open minded journalist. I have reported on things that seem to unbelievable to be true, but are. I've earned myself a bit of a reputation, actually," she said, grinning. "People believe what I say. If I report on something crazy, people are more likely to believe it, because I’ve _always_ been right. I do my research, and conspiracy theory or not, if it’s true, I report it.”

Ressler nodded, closing the file and tucking it into his suit jacket. “Thank you so much for meeting with me, Ms…”

“McRae,” she responds. “Jamie McRae.”

“Thank you. I know what you’re doing with Mr. Reddington is dangerous, and we appreciate it.”

She smiles and nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re welcome. Let me know if there’s anything else you need. Mr. Reddington can always get in contact with me, or if you’d like my phone number…”

Ressler shakes his head quickly, because he doesn’t need to go there right now. “No, Mr. Reddington should manage our conversations. It’s safer that way,” he adds, because surprisingly he doesn’t want to seem like too much of a dick. “Good night,” he adds, and he makes sure the file is still in place before heading toward the car Dembe is waiting in. He looks back to make sure she’s headed away from the meeting site as well, because lingering is sure to get you noticed. She is - she’s climbing into a small, blue car and, satisfied that she’s safe, Ressler climbs into his own car (well, Dembe’s car).

“Is there anywhere else you need to go, Mr. Ressler?” Dembe asks politely, and Ressler shakes his head.

“No. But, uh, is there any way you can put me in touch with Mr. Reddington?”

Dembe nods. “I will have him call you,” he says, and shifts the car into drive as he pulls out of the parking lot.

**_May 16th, Ressler’s Apartment, 9:12 PM_ **

_Riiiiing. Riiiiing._

The shrill noise wakes Ressler from a fitful sleep. He rolls over to find that he’d apparently fallen asleep on the couch, because he falls off as he reaches for his phone.

 _Damnit, that fucking hurts_ , he moans internally as he cradles his injured shoulder. He reaches for his phone despite the pain, however, because it could be Liz, or Reddington.

“Hello?” he grunts out, already trying to pull himself into a sitting position. He leans heavily against the couch and pants in pain, screwing his eyes shut as he tries to will the dizziness away.

_“Donald! How nice to hear your voice. You sound like you’re in pain - have you injured yourself again?”_

_Damn that smarmy bastard._

“No, remnants of your parting gift, last time we met.”

Reddington clicks his tongue on the other end. “ _Pity. We only have one hundred and nine seconds left. Dembe said you wanted to talk to me?”_

“I’m not tracing you,” Ressler says, a knee-jerk reaction, and then, “I met with Ms. McRae today. She told me the plan to assassinate the president. Also, Agent Mojtabai has been compromised. Someone named Yvonne got to him. He’s reporting on my moves, within reason and without compromising you or Liz.”

_“Does he need extracted?”_

Ressler is sure Reddington has more to say, but they both know they’re on a strict time limit.

“No, he’s fine for now. I need him here. If it comes to it, we’ll all leave. Agents Mojtabai and Navabi and myself. We can do more good here for now, but if it comes to it, Reddington…”

 _“If it comes to that, we will come collect you personally,”_ Reddington confirms, and though Ressler knows he shouldn’t wish for it - knows he can do more good from inside the system than outside it - he almost wishes it was necessary, because he could see _her_ again.

 _“We’re out of time,”_ Reddington says, and Ressler sighs.

“Say hello to Liz for me,” he says quietly, and Reddington chuckles softly.

 _“WIll do. Be careful, Donald,”_ he warns, and then the line goes dead.

Ressler flops back on the couch, hissing as he forgets once again that he was _shot in the shoulder six days ago_.

 _What the hell do I do now?_ he wonders, and sighs as he realizes he won’t find the answer tonight. Instead, he opts to head for his bedroom, to get some rest before following up on the leads Jamie provided.

 _Goodnight, Liz,_ he thinks, and as has become the norm, she is the last thing he thinks of before falling to sleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

 

**May 19th, Moscow, Russia, 3:45 AM**

Liz is out of breath as she rounds another corner, nearly tripping over her own feet as she uses the wall for support, gasping desperately for breath.

"We have to keep running, sweetheart, come on," Reddington prompts, a gentle but insistent hand on her shoulder. She can see that he's worn out as well, though he must be more used to running away from those who would harm him than she is. He's a seasoned runner, she muses, gasping in another breath before nodding, giving herself a mental pep talk ( _you can do this - you have to, or you'll die_ ) as she shoves away from the wall and continues to run down the poorly lit streets. Her footsteps echo across the concrete buildings, giving away her presence (but she can't slow down or quiet herself, or they'll catch her for sure).

They run for two more blocks, and by the time Reddington sticks out a hand to stop her, her lungs are on _fire_ and her vision is questionable. She falls to her knees, gasping, and wonders if she'll make it out of this one alive.

"Phone," Reddington gasps, and she can see that he's struggling as well. They hear footsteps behind them and both of them flinch - but it's just a drunk couple shoving their wait noisily out of a bar, and they relax slightly.

Liz digs through her pockets with shaking hands, silently bemoaning the fact that her current number is the only on Ressler has - he won't be able to contact her, though she can still call him if she makes it out of this alive. She hands her phone to Reddington and he removes the SIM card, crushing it beneath his foot, before breaking her phone in half and tossing it into the trash can they're standing by. She watches as he does the same to his, breathing deeply and preparing herself for another sprint across Russia.

"How much longer?" she asks, standing shakily to her feet once more. It feels like they've been running forever, but in reality it was probably less than an hour ago that their hotel was raided. They'd left everything behind - computers, money, clothing - and Reddington had shoved her out of a window before her sleep-addled brain was able to catch up and realize that _oh, their room was filled with smoke, and that was probably why Reddington was coughing and his eyes were red and why the hell they were jumping out of a window_.

"Archer should be approaching with the car now. He said to meet him at 12th Street East and Madison - we're two blocks out," Reddington says, and Liz nods. Archer is the on-the-run version of Dembe, and though she likes him a lot less, he's just as adept at finding exfil points and keeping their asses out of jail.

"We should get going then," she says, and Reddington smiles at her, fixing the position of his fedora.

"You were made to be a spy, Lizzie. I'm so glad you decided to join the dark side."

She rolls her eyes, but figures her snappy retorts will have to wait until later. She nods at him and they begin running again, in the direction of safety, of yet another hide-out.

 _They're running out of places in the world to hide_ , she thinks, rounding a corner and almost collapsing with relief as she sees Archer's car in the distance. _There are too many people searching for them._

"Almost there," Reddington says, reaching out to let her know with a gentle touch to the shoulder that she should begin running on his other side. She understand why immediately - he wants her to enter the car first, which should have been touching but was only more concerning, because were their attackers really that close?

She doesn't dare look back.

"Mr. Reddington!" Archer shouts, and he climbs out of the car to open the side door, which is a mistake, really, because before Liz knows what's happening, loud shots are ringing through the air and Archer is on the ground, blood pooling beneath his body, and it's a shame because he had been very good to her and Reddington.

"LIZ! _Get in_!" Reddington shouts, changing his course to intersect with the driver's door. Liz is just barely inside the car when Reddington throws it into 'drive' and peels out of the parking lot. The rear window shatters, and Liz simultaneously crouches and pulls her door closed as they tear through the darkness.

It takes her about twenty minutes to stop shaking and gasping before she is able to sit up and take in her surroundings.

Reddington is driving with grim determination.

"Archer was a good man," he said mournfully, because they hadn't even had the time to check and see if he was alive. They had left without seeing if they could save him and the thought makes Liz feel sick.

"What _the hell_ was that?" she asks, because less than an hour ago she'd been sleeping peacefully and now she was running _again_ with only what she was wearing and the knowledge that they'd been found in less than 24 hours this time.

"That," Reddington says slowly, regretfully. "Was the icing on the cake. Liz, we are running out of places to hide. It is becoming harder and harder for me to find places with people I trust, people who are in my debt and who will not turn us in. I'm afraid this time we're headed to a safe house. Safe, yes," he muses, bobbing his head in consideration. "Yet _utterly_ boring to me. No civilization, no red wine in five star restaurants, no soft pillows fluffed daily by french maids."

Liz almost chuckles at Reddington's dramatic monologue.

"Where is this safe house?"

Reddington spares her a glance as he drives through the darkened streets.

"We're going to Disney World, Lizzie."

**May 19th, The Post Office, 8:00 AM**

Ressler is pacing worriedly inside his office, fully aware that Samar and Aram are watching him warily from their post below. Before coming in to work, he had tried to contact Reddington because -

"God, I'm going nuts," he murmurs to himself, because surely the man following him to his car was just another resident of the apartment building, right? He couldn't have been followed this morning.

 _Or the other day when you met with the journalist_ , he mocks himself, because he's a trained FBI agent and he _knows_ he was followed, damn it. He knows he's not going crazy, though it certainly feels like it as he continues his path of destruction. He continues to wear a hole in the flooring of his office, dialing the number Dembe had given him because he just has to make sure he's not going crazy on that front, either.

Nope, it's still the same - _The number your are calling has been disconnected or is out of order. Please -_

He angrily stabs the 'end call' button on his phone, missing the way you could angrily snap a flip phone closed and then wondering what the hell is wrong with him because, really, there are bigger things to worry about.

"Boss?"

It's Samar in the doorway, and Ressler is fairly certain that he has never received more pitying looks in his entire life as he has in these last three months.

"Everything alright in here?"

Ressler shakes his head, pausing in his path to pinch the bridge of his nose. He knows they can't talk here. Waving his phone in his good hand, he turns his attention to his messages app and pulls up Samar's number. He texts her - _"being followed. Afraid asset may have been compromised. Cannot raise the alarm for L/R"._ He watches Samar read the message and then delete it. She looks up worriedly.

"Can I help with anything?"

Ressler sighs, shaking his head. "No. Thank you. I need... I need to make a few phone calls."

**May 19th, Florida, USA, 5:00 PM**

"Isn't this a little too close to ... well, everyone that we're trying to stay away from?" Liz asks, watching the trees fly past her window as they drive. They'd taken Reddington's private jet across the world and landed in Florida less than thirty minutes ago. Reddington had ditched the plane and rented a car under a fake name, immediately destroying that identity afterward. They were driving in the direction of the beach (Destin, Florida, home to Winter and Hope the dolphins, how had Reddington decided on this place again?), and though Liz has always wanted to visit the beach, she never imagined it going down quite like this.

"Sometimes, dear Lizzie, hiding in plain sight is the best disguise one can have. I have a man - he can put us up, provide for us during our stay at the safe house."

Liz grins. "But no red wine?"

"Alas," Reddington confirms sadly, his lips twitching as he tries not to grin.

Liz chuckles and turns back to the window. She toys with her new phone (a flip phone, Reddington is certain they can be traced from a smart phone, and he's probably right, fucking government), flipping it up and down in her hand. She wants very much to call Ressler, to let him know they're very close to home, but of course that's a stupid idea, she can't tell him where they are. She could just talk to him, though - that couldn't hurt anything, could it?

Sighing, she pockets her phone to remove the temptation to call him. She lays her head against the window and relaxes for the long drive.

**May 19th, Ressler's Apartment, 9:00 PM**

Ressler is more wary than ever as he sticks his key in the lock and draws his gun, clearing his apartment before entering. He's going insane. He's going to lose his mind, he's certain of it, if this doesn't end soon.

Putting his gun back, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. He still feels as if he was being watched, but he can't see anyone outside and there's no one but him inside the apartment, so for the moment he feels fine. Not safe, he won't feel safe until this whole fucking ordeal is over, but he feels like he can go to bed and wake up in the morning and the world won't have turned on it's side.

"Going nuts," he muses, but decides he'd rather be crazy than leave his sidearm by the door, where anyone coming in could use it against him. For the first time in a while, it ends up in the bedroom with him, under his pillow in case he needs it in the night.

He's never been involved in anything like this, and he's frightened by how insecure and paranoid it's making him.

 _Shut up and go to sleep_ , he thinks, falling face first into his bed, careful to avoid his (mostly healed) gunshot wound. He removes his shoes and loosens his tie, but that's all he's able to accomplish before he falls asleep, exhaustion overtaking him completely.

**May 19th, Unknown Location, 10:10 PM**

The man is patient, sitting and waiting quietly in the dark. The other man - his target - had come home a little over an hour ago, and the lights in the apartment had turned off almost immediately.

 _Not tonight_ , he thinks. He needs to keep watching, to see where this man - Ressler - can lead him. He'd already proved useful thus far.

Reaching for his phone, the man in the dark dials a number quickly and holds it to his ear. Once a voice on the other end answers, the man smiles - the act causes his skin to stretch over his face, revealing an ugly scar running from his lip to his eye.

"I found him."


	8. Chapter 8

 

**_May 20th, Ressler's Apartment, 7:00 AM_ **

"Liz, pick up your damn phone!"

Ressler slams his phone down after angrily pressing the  _end call_  button, running a hand through his hair as he sighs loudly. He blows out another breath of air, stalling, trying to figure out what to do. His foot taps on the floor, rapid and in a continuous pattern as he thinks.

 _He's being followed, he knows for sure now, because the glint of a scope is impossible to mistake, and also he'd seen that same man twice now, and there's no such thing as coincidence when you're trying to disband a group of corrupt government officials_.

"Liz, please pick up," he begs silently, blowing out a breath of air he hadn't known he was holding as he picks his phone up once more and resumes his pacing. The phone rings three times before clicking, and when Ressler hears her soft voice say,  _"Hello?"_  he runs a hand over the stubble on his jaw and collapses into his arm chair weakly.

"Liz," is all he says, and he can hear her breathing on the other end but she's not responding and he's afraid she may hang up. "How are you?" he asks, because he can't think of much else to say besides  _please come home_  and he can't say that because he's not safe and neither is she.

 _"I miss you_ ," she says instead of responding to his question, and he knows she's safe but discontent with her role in the situation they're in (the situation she'd inadvertently gotten them into).

"I miss you, too," he says, and then, because he's stupid and irrational and he can't help it, he blurts out, "I need to see you."

The silence that follows his confession leaves his heart beating fast and the blood rushing loudly in his ears. He wishes he could take it back, because of course he can't see her, she's in hiding, probably in another country, and besides, he highly doubts her seeing him is important enough to her to take the risks of -

" _Can we make it work_? _Can we meet_?" she says instead of what he'd been anticipating ("don't be stupid, Ressler," being at the top of his list of her possible responses). " _I need to see you, too."_

He wants to ask where she is, but he knows she won't respond to such a specific question, so instead he asks, "Are you in the country?"

" _Yes_ ," she responds, and he can tell she's biting her lip because she does that a lot when she's nervous and she sounds awful nervous now.

"Tell me where you can get without Reddington being suspicious and I'll be there."

She's silent for a minute, and he is out of his chair and resuming his pacing because he's afraid she's thinking of hanging up instead of thinking of a meeting place. But he can still hear her shuffling around, so he knows she hasn't hung up on him yet.

 _"Ressler, are you still there?"_  she finally asks, and he grins unconsciously as he nods, "Yeah, I'm still here."

 _"Meet me in Disney World_."

**May 21st, Disney World, 1:00 PM**

The sun is blazing and the sky is so blue it almost hurts to look at it. As Ressler takes in his surroundings (planning escape routes, scoping the families and vacationers to make sure no one look suspicious, to make sure no one is wearing clothing heavy enough to mask a gun) he realizes why Liz chose this place (regardless of the fact that he's pretty sure she chose it because it's close to where she's staying, but he doesn't care about finding their hideout anymore, not sure he ever really did).

It's  _busy._

There are people everywhere, kids darting in and out of legs, screaming and touching each other with ice cream and cotton candy sticky hands. Parents are having fun, either ignoring their kids (parents of the "they'll be fine, we ran around when we were kids and look, here we are" mentality) or worriedly scanning the crowds constantly, keeping their children in constant contact as the throngs of people move throughout the amusement park (helicopter parents).

"This place is  _nuts_ ," he muses, flipping open his map to locate the water fountain Liz had asked him to meet her at. He's nervous and taking his time, because as much as he needs to see her, as excited as he is that she agreed to come to him, he's afraid that going back after seeing her will be impossible. He's afraid he'll rationalize it (he's being followed, hunted, anyway - would it really hurt to let Reddington extract him now?) and convince himself to leave the Post Office.

He's walking and he sees it in front of him, but he doesn't see  _her_  until he hears her voice.

"Ress," she says, and he knows he's a goner from the moment he turns around and catches sight of her.

He doesn't know how he'll go back now.

He doesn't know how he'll leave her.

She looks smaller, somehow, like maybe she hasn't been eating as much as she needs or maybe she's exhausted, or maybe she just seems small because she's in civilian clothing standing quietly as the masses of excited, lively people move around her. Regardless, he finds himself pushing past people to reach her and suddenly she's in his arms and he's breathing in her scent deeply, burying his face in her hair and he's calmer than he's been in months and he knows it's because she's close.

"Hi," he whispers, his cheek brushing against hers as he pulls back to meet her eyes. And even though she looks small and exhausted, her eyes shine brightly with happiness as her lips stretch into a smile.

"Hi," she says, and she reaches to take his hand. "We're practically invisible here," she muses, and Ressler is amazed at how easy it is to hold her hand and be in Disney World and not be worried for his life for the first time in two months.

"Yeah?" he asks, and he knows she's right. With about a million people in the park, they're probably not being watched.

"We should ride the swings," she says, and he's tempted to agree.

They  _should_  ride the swings, shouldn't they?

"Ok," he agrees easily, and he lets her lead him away from the fountain. He's not sure where they're going, but he's excited to go there because he's with her. It scares him how easy this all is, being here with her, holding her hand, not worrying about the hundreds (possibly thousands) of people who want them dead.

He should run away, from her, from this situation, from these  _feelings_.

But...

He follows her anyway.

**May 21st, Disney World, 6 PM**

By the time the sun is setting, he's sure Reddington is missing her and is certain there's no way he can go back without her.

They're sitting on a rock ledge by the ice cream truck, enjoying their favorites in silence. Liz is eating chocolate and he's eating vanilla, even though she pauses every thirty seconds or so to remind him his choice is boring and he should find a new favorite.

"Vanilla is  _classic_ ," he argues, and she laughs and he smiles, because  _God_  he missed that sound. She's still holding his hand and he's annoyed that the warm weight of her hand in his causes his heart to thud erratically in his chest. He's a grown man, for goodness sake, not a twelve year old. But when she finishes her cone and turns her attention to him, he's suddenly uncomfortable and wary under her watchful eye.

"Try it," he insists gruffly, shoving the cone in her personal space, thankful it doesn't drip and embarrass him because he's not smooth and he can just imagine the remaining ice cream sliding off his cone and dropping into her lap and wouldn't that be great?

She grins at him before tasting the cone, flicking her pink tongue out to lick up some of the sweet treat.

"Mmm," she says, swirling the cream around in her mouth. His own mouth has gone dry, watching her, watching her tongue and her smile and her eyes as they flick back to his. She licks her lips and he swears she's doing it on purpose.

But she misses a spot, and really, with that logic, what happens next is really her own fault.

Ressler leans forward, his head tilted, and kisses the side of her lip (just barely making contact, but the touch of his skins against hers causes her to gasp and it's a beautiful sound). He catches the excess ice cream between his own lips and tastes it and her all in one and he suddenly has a new favorite ice cream flavor.

"Ressler?" she asks shakily, and when he pulls back he sees something in her eyes and he hopes he reads it correctly, because he leans in and kisses her again, and  _God, yes, he read the signs right_  because she's suddenly kissing him back, and when she parts her lips and lets her tongue slip out to run across his own roughened lips, he feels like he might pass out.

But he doesn't. Instead, he tosses the rest of his ice cream into a nearby bin so both hands are free to cup her jaw and pull her closer. She repeats her previous action, running her warm tongue across his lips and this time he opens to her, meeting her halfway and swirling together the flavors of chocolate and vanilla, and maybe he can be convinced to like chocolate, after all.

It's a very long time before he breaks away, and he only does it because an obnoxious catcall reminds him that they're in public.

Liz pulls away, giggling, and Ressler grins cockily at her.

"I wish you hadn't thrown that ice cream away," she says, and if she doesn't want to be kissed in public, she should really stop licking her lips, damn it _._

"Yeah, well, I had more important things on my mind," he says a little breathlessly, catching her lips again. She's smiling and laughing, though, so kissing her is a challenge, but he'd be damned if he'd walk away from a challenge. The FBI did not give up, after all.

"I should go," she finally says, breaking away, and he holds her hand tighter, because  _no_ , they just discovered this and he wants to talk about it.

"Liz..."

She sighs and stands, taking his hand once more, and he's reassured despite telling himself he doesn't need reassurance because he's Director Donald Ressler, damn it, but the warmth of her hand in his reminds him that she's still there and it's comforting.

"It's getting late. Reddington is going to kill me."

He concedes the point, because he can just imagine Reddington now, angry and shouting but ultimately more worried than pissed off because he cares for Liz.

"When will I see you again?" he asks, and even though he knows that neither of them can be sure of when they'll see each other again, he asks anyway.

"Soon," Liz says, and because it's hard to say goodbye, neither of them speak as they heard toward the park exit.

 _Soon_.

If only they realized how soon it would actually be.

**May 21st, Unknown Location, 6:10 PM**

The man grins to himself, clicking the camera shutter as fast as he can, capturing the moment from as many different angles as possible.

_Director Ressler and fugitive Liz Keen, kissing._

_Holding hands._

_Laughing._

He follows them to the park exit, then quietly slips off into the darkness.

He had what he came for.

**May 22nd, Post Office Parking Garage, 7:30 AM**

"Aram, I'm  _literally_  outside in the parking garage. I'll be up in two minutes. Why the hell are you calling me at 7:30 in the morning?" Ressler snaps, grumpy and tired. He hadn't slept on the flight back at all, and two sick days in a row was too suspicious, he knew had to be here even if he didn't want to. He slams his car door a little harder than necessary and opens the trunk, searching for his briefcase.

_"Boss, you can't come in today."_

"Why the hell not?" Ressler snaps, hands pausing their search as he holds the phone closer to his ear.

" _We, uh - we received a package this morning. I'll be in big trouble if they know I'm talking to you, agents are everywhere. Everywhere. Like, in my office, your office, by the doors, there may even be some in the garage, so be careful - "_

"Aram! The point!"

Ressler slams the trunk, but holds his keys in his hands, not sure if he should be getting back in the car or hurrying inside. He looks around, trying to assess his current situation. Agents in the parking garage? Why?

_"We got a package of pictures. Of ... um, you. In Disney World?"_

Ressler's heart sinks to his stomach. He feels physically ill, because  _they shouldn't have let their guard down, and if there are pictures then everyone knows he met up with Liz and he'll be relieved of his position as soon as he walks inside because he's harboring a fugitive and meeting with someone on the FBI's Top Ten Most Wanted list. And oh, God, he's going to be arrested and he'll never see Liz again._

He swallows hard, walking slowly back to the driver side door of his SUV.

"Just me, or...?"

He knows the answer, but he asks anyway because he's hoping Aram will tell him what to do.

" _You and Liz,"_  Aram answers, and the younger man is whispering now and Ressler is worried for him, too. " _Boss, you need to get the hell away from here. Call Mr. Reddington. It's no longer safe for you to work this from the inside."_

"I can't leave you and Samar," Ressler argues, but he knows it's a weak argument, because if he doesn't leave them he'll be behind bars and of no help to anyone.

" _Leave, NOW_ ," Aram says, and he's still whispering but his words are filled with conviction. " _I saw some men on the camera heading to your position. Leave us, we'll be fine. Go. Now."_

The line goes dead (did Aram get caught? Hang up just in time to avoid detection? Ressler has no way of knowing and it drives him crazy).

Ressler holds his phone listening to the dial tone as it blends in with the sound of echoing footsteps on the metal staircase leading down to the parking garage.

 _What the hell should he do now_?


	9. Chapter 9

**May 22nd, Post Office Parking Garage, 8:10 AM**

Ressler is back at his apartment in record time, heart pounding because he knows he was followed and that he doesn't have long to grab a few necessities and get the hell out of dodge. He has tried to call Reddington at least ten times but to no avail. It had only been about forty minutes since Aram had called him, had let him know that he was done for and being hunted along with Reddington and Liz.

_Forty minutes was all it took to realize his life - the life he knew and was comfortable in - was over._

He stuffs a few changes of clothes into a small duffle bag, throws his toothbrush, razor, hair gel, and a few other bathroom necessities on top, and tugs it closed as he balances his phone on his ear again.

He's just barely staving off complete panic and he knows he has to get out of here, because he was followed for sure and they may already have him surrounded.

 _Reddington, pick up your fucking phone!_  he yells internally, almost throwing his cell onto the floor (he'll have to ditch it anyway, he knows). But instead of destroying his phone out of anger, he realizes something.

"Dembe," he mutters, and palms his phone once again, heart pounding as he dials, grabs his keys, wallet, and bag and walks out of the door. The phone rings twice - standard, Ressler' is realizing, for Dembe - before his rumbling voice floats through the phone line. Ressler is on the stairs, walking quickly toward his SUV. His apartment door is closed, not locked, because what's the point? He's not sure when (if ever) he'll be able to go back.

"Hello?"

"Dembe, thank God  _someone_  is answering their phone," he grouses, and he tosses his bag in the back seat of his car as he climbs in. He locks the doors automatically and puts both hands on the steering wheel, letting his phone drop as it switches from the phone to the car Bluetooth. "I need to be extracted. Now."

Dembe's reaction is immediate. As if he'd been expecting something like this (which, to be fair, he probably had - Reddington was a very smart and resourceful man, and he had to know this was coming).  _Fuck_ , maybe he  _did_  know. If Aram got the pictures, there's a good chance Reddington had gotten his hands on them, too, Ressler realizes, shifting his car first into 'reverse' to exit the parking lot and then 'drive' to get as far away from his apartment as he can.

"Meet me at the park on Redwood and Ridge Avenue. I'll call Mr. Reddington and ask him what he'd like us to do."

Ressler breathes a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, Dembe. And hey - "

Ressler ran his hand through his hair and blushes like a freaking school girl.

"Would you ask him to have Liz call me?"

Dembe is silent for a minute, and Ressler winces, certain he'd been hung up on because of the enormous stupidity of his request. But then Dembe says, "I'll see what I can do," and it occurs to Ressler that, despite the fact that Dembe is Reddington's man (and possibly  _because_  he is Reddington's man) that he's on Ressler's side and he's really not alone in this shitty situation.

"Thanks," Ressler says, and pushes the 'end call' button on his steering wheel as he eases his SUV into traffic on Broadway.

"Directions to Redwood and Ridge Avenue," he says, pushing the GPS app on his phone. The route is calculated, and Ressler is dismayed to see that, in heavy traffic, it'll take him almost 41 minutes to reach his extraction point. He sighs, looks around (as if he's expecting to see one of the assassins in the car next to him) and settles in for the long drive.

**May 20th, Unknown Location, 8:30 AM**

"Lizzie?"

Liz turns around, biting her lip as she watches Reddington hang up his phone. She'd heard words like 'extraction' and 'being followed' in relation to Ressler's name, and had been worriedly pacing the entire time Reddington had been on the phone.

"He's been compromised, hasn't he?" she asks, sitting down across from Reddington as he places his phone on the table and picks up his glass of wine. She's absurdly annoyed all of a sudden that he can be so calm, drinking his wine, while Ressler is obviously in danger. They should be  _doing_  something.

"That was Dembe. Dear Donald was able to surmise that he was being followed and is convinced his life is in danger. I told Dembe to tell Donald he's an idiot, of course he's in danger, he always has been, it's just now he's smart enough to see it."

Liz sighs and looks pointedly at Reddington, as if to say  _get to the fucking point_. Reddington grins and swirls his wine around as he crosses his legs, looking the picture of perfect contentedness as Liz bounces her leg up and down anxiously.

"Regardless, we believe it's time to extract Donald and Dembe is on his way to him as we speak."

"OK," Liz said, slightly breathless, as if she isn't internally screaming in both fear and excitement.

She'll see Ressler.

 _Soon_.

"However," Reddington continues, and his tone shifts from business to mildly amused and also mildly annoyed and Liz sits up straighter because Reddington is a commanding presence and also because she knows from his face - not a hint of amusement present - that this will be important. "It is ... disappointing that we have to extract him this soon. I was hoping he could do us some good, being at - and in charge of! - the task force." He makes a 'tsk' noise and Liz feels like she's twelve, although she doesn't know why yet.

"Riiiight," Liz ventures, unsure of where Reddington is going with this.

Thankfully, Reddington isn't one to beat around the bush and he swivels around in his chair to meet her eyes. "What you two did was  _very_  stupid, Lizzie. Meeting him? Now,  _here_ , of all places? Literally in the  _United States_ , where they have eyes and ears everywhere, and you let yourselves be compromised because you  _missed each other_?"

Liz winces - of course he knew. Just because he hadn't said anything yet (to be fair, she hadn't seen him at all last night when she'd returned, he didn't really have a chance to say anything) didn't mean he didn't also have eyes and ears everywhere - probably more of them than the FBI and the Cabal combined, in fact.  _Of course_ he knew.

She opens her mouth to speak, but then snaps it shut again, because it's clear from Reddington's steely look he isn't interested in discussing her stupidity. What's done is done, she supposes.

Silence reigns for a few moments, and as awkward as it is, it's better than talking.

Reddington heaves a hugely annoyed sigh and puts his (empty) wine glass down before speaking.

"Also, Donald would like you to call him. You remember the rules of burner phones," Reddington says offhandedly, and Liz grins, grabs her phone, and forces herself to walk (not run) out of the room to make a phone call.

**May 20th, Ressler's Car (stuck in traffic), 8:45 AM**

"Liz," Ressler sighs in relief, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he eeks his way around another car that's not moving. Traffic is worse than the normal morning commute, and his GPS informs him that his ride time has increased by seven minutes because of a stalled car near 32nd. He knows having an entire lane out of business in busy, New York traffic will delay him for longer than seven minutes and he's both annoyed and terrified. His car isn't moving, and while it's unlikely that anyone could catch up to him in this traffic, if they did, he'd be a sitting duck.

 _"Hey,"_  Liz says, and her voice floats calmingly throughout the car as his phone automatically connects to the Bluetooth.  _"Reddington said you wanted me to call you?"_

Ressler purses his lips together tightly as a young, stoned-looking man flips him off. "Reddington fill you in?"

 _"Yeah,"_  Liz says, and he can hear the worry in her voice.  _"He said you're being extracted. We, uh, were apparently compromised at Disney World."_

"Not one of our brighter moments," Ressler agrees, fighting a grin, because he shouldn't be happy about this, much less  _amused_ , but it is kind of funny, and also in some strange way he expects his chaotic life to calm down now that he's not a double agent and instead is simply a fugitive.

_"So I guess I'll see you again soon?"_

She doesn't say anything, but Ressler can hear it in her voice - she's both excited and nervous, which is to be expected, since they hadn't had very much of an opportunity to talk about what had happened in Disney World, or, as he'd been hoping, some time to filter through his own thoughts and emotions before seeing her again. The fact that they had kissed was still very fresh in his mind, and he would be seeing her again soon, in less than ideal circumstances.

"Yeah, if I can ever make it out of this traffic," he says, feeling the tension slip from his shoulders as she laughs lightly on the other end.

 _"New York traffic is a bitch_ ," she agrees, and he flexes his fingers on the wheel, wanting very much to see her now.

"My exit is coming up," he regretfully informs her, knowing in said bitchy traffic he'll need to do a considerably better job focusing than he's doing right now. "I'll see you soon, yeah?"

 _"Yeah,"_  Liz agrees, and it's after a few seconds of silence that she wishes him luck and hangs up. Ressler lets the car deal with that, knowing it'll shut his phone off a few seconds after the call disconnects. He keeps his eyes forward, focusing on making it to Redwood and Ridge Avenue so he can leave this panic and fear behind.

**May 20th, 36th and Main, 9:15 AM**

Dembe is already at the park when Ressler arrives. He's leaning against a nondescript black car (why always black? Did Reddington have a fascination with black cars, or did it serve an actual purpose?), his head down and his arms crossed loosely in front of his chest. Kids run around the park, and parents chase after them or ignore them completely without noticing the black man by the black car. (Maybe black was less often noticed? Maybe Reddington did have a reason for the strange things he did.)

"Dembe," Ressler greets him, sliding out of the driver's seat of the SUV as he switches off the engine and grabs his bag. "I assume time is of the essence?"

Dembe nods, opening the back door for Ressler. Ressler regards the man quietly as he climbs in. Dembe looks neither annoyed with the fact that he had to ferry Ressler around, but nor does he look excited. He looks, as usual, like he doesn't mind one way or the other or like he was out running simple errands. Ressler envies the way that Dembe can arrange his facial features to look like nothing ever ruffled him. He couldn't do it, he often felt like a live wire, especially when he was angry (or afraid).

"I'm afraid I need your phone," Dembe says, sliding into the driver's seat and rolling down his window. Ressler passes it over, knowing that Dembe is going to disable it and leave it at the park. "Do you have any other electronics on you? An iPod, MP3 player, anything they can bounce a signal off of?"

Ressler shakes his head - having an iPhone was as techy as he got. "No, that's all."

"Good. To your knowledge, has the FBI planted a tracking device in you?"

Ressler shakes his head again, and Dembe seems satisfied as he takes out the SIM card in Ressler's phone, cracks it in half, and tosses all of the parts out of his window before shifting the sleek black car into 'drive' and pulling away from the park.

"Get comfortable, Agent Ressler," Dembe advises from the front seat. "We cannot travel by plane, so this is going to be quite the long trip."

 _Right, they were staying in Florida,_  Ressler recalls, knowing that Liz probably hadn't been able to travel far to make it to Disney World under Reddington's watchful eye, which meant that they were in for roughly a 16 hour drive, if Dembe didn't decide to take the lesser known back roads.

Sighing quietly, Ressler rests his head against the window and watches as Dembe expertly pulls out into the slowly thinning traffic.

_I'm on my way, Liz._


	10. Chapter 10

**May 22nd, On the Road, 3:23 AM**

Ressler wakes slowly, as if pulling himself from a dark, deep nothingness. He becomes aware of his surroundings as the car rolls slowly to a stop, and he opens his blue eyes open carefully, wanting to groan at the stiffness in his joints. He doesn't, because the car is completely silent and he is unwilling to break the sound of nothingness that is more uncomfortable than it should be. He lets his head loll to the side, shifting uneasily as he glances at his watch.  _May 22nd, 3:23 AM_ , it reads, and he feels his heart speed up because they've been on the road for  _two fucking days_ , and they  _must_  be getting close.

He leans forward and asks Dembe, suddenly not caring about the broken silence. He's confused about more than one thing - why, for example, they're stopped in the middle of a parking lot in the middle of the night - but finding out his location in relation to Liz's takes precedence.

"Where are we?"

Dembe turns around in his seat to face Ressler. Though they'd barely spoken on the drive - mostly they'd just traded questions asking why they were taking back roads instead of the main highways (because the main highways likely had checkpoints, as Ressler's handsome face had joined Reddington's and Liz's on the Top Ten Most Wanted list) and why they were stopping (because they'd driven for eleven hours and it was time for Dembe to sleep). But despite their lack of communication, Ressler felt more comfortable with Dembe's stoic silence over the past 48 hours than he ever had before (honestly, his silence had made Ressler uneasy before).

"We are approaching Florida. It will not be long now, Agent Ressler," he reassures Ressler, and the blond nods, accepting his answer.

"Why... are we stopping?"

He hates asking questions, because he feels stupid and inadequate when the answers are simple and straightforward. But he asks anyway because he's no longer in charge and he doesn't _know_  and he doesn't like the feeling. It makes his skin crawl and he feels helpless, which is not a feeling Special Agent Donald Ressler is used to or comfortable with.

"Mr. Reddington is meeting us here. He will lead us to the safe house the best way he knows how. It is... tricky," Dembe says, settling on the word with a smile. "Mr. Reddington is the best at creating safe houses, and they are always trouble to find."

"Right," Ressler agrees, sitting back. He remembers one or two of those tricky (impossible) to find safe houses. "He _is_  the best."

The two men sit in silence, Ressler in the back, absently flipping his phone open and closed as he waits, and Dembe in the front, posed to resume driving at a moments notice if necessary.

Ressler sighs and shifts, uncomfortable in his suit, but he'd run from the Post Office parking lot and hadn't brought much else with him. He ran out of fresh clothes the day before and had no other option but to put his suit back on. He'd made do with hotel showers and hand-washing in the sink, but he is uncomfortable and he isn't sure his suit will ever recover. He hopes that wherever they were going there is good water pressure and actual soap. His skin is dry and itchy and he's sure he smells like cheap hotels, stagnant, stale car air, and man sweat.

He flips open his phone again -  _3:41 AM_  - and jumps in surprise when the door opposite him opens and Reddington slides into the seat, clean and perfectly pressed as usual (making Ressler feel more inadequate than ever in his rumpled, smelly suit) and his fedora on his head. He glances at Ressler and grins an impish grin, touching Dembe's shoulder lightly to let him know he should begin driving again.

"Donald," Reddington greets him, and Ressler shifts so he can face the older man. "How  _are_  you?"

Ressler is cranky. He does his best to hide it, but from the way Reddington grins and chuckles, he doesn't do a very good job (though, thankfully, Reddington is amused at his crankiness).

"I'm tired, I need a shower, and I'll be perfectly happy if I never have to drive in a car again," he grouses.

Reddington chuckles once more, and then leans forward, removing his fedora and sitting it on the seat between them.

"I bet you would be," he empathizes, and then his smile falters a little. "You were discovered as a mole," he confirms, and Ressler nods, feeling a little like a schoolboy under the scrutinizing eye of his father.

"Uh," he begins, not quite meeting Reddington's gaze as they pass under streetlight after streetlight. The glimpses of light are just enough to illuminate Reddington's features, and though he still seems amused (Reddington, to be fair, almost always looks amused, though he has various forms of amusement that vary in severity) Ressler is uncomfortable. "Liz and I, we made a bad call," he summarizes, and Reddington chuckles quietly.

"A  _spectacularly_  bad one, I would say." He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, a nostalgic smile coming over his face as he touches Dembe's shoulder to indicate that they should be turning. "I remember one time, I was in Paris with this... beauty of a woman. She was positively  _radiant_. Fascinating. I was in Paris on business, but pleasure has a way of presenting itself at the most inopportune time. I fell into her clutches - and dear Donald, what clutches they were! - and it turns out she was working for the man I was looking for." Reddington pauses, his lips raising in a small smile. He shakes his head, and laughs. "Beautiful women can be the downfall of even the most regulated man."

Ressler offers Reddington a grin, nodding and feeling more at ease. Still, he'd feel more comfortable changing the subject, so he does.

"Do we have any more information? The journalists?" he queries, and he can see Reddington shifting from lighthearted storyteller to business mode in mere seconds. The older man turns slightly so that he's facing Ressler more head-on now.

"As a matter of fact, we do. Though it is not necessarily information as much as a plan of action, now that you're on our side until we take down the Cabal."

_If_  we take down the Cabal, Ressler amends in his head.

"Our dearly devoted journalists have been working around the clock on piecing together information from the Fulcrum. It's a labyrinth of secrets, darkness, and more deprivation and death than you'll ever know. They're working on a comprehensive list of corrupt government officials, not just here in the United States, but in the world. The corruption runs deep, the people in power more despicable than even  _I_  had previously imagined."

Ressler stomach hurts - he feels sick, betrayed by the country he believed in - fought for, gave up so much for - his whole life.

"The plan?" he asks finally, swallowing thickly

"It will cause  _massive_  unrest," Reddington warns, though instead of looking uneasy he looks positively gleeful, his eyes sparkling and his lips turned up in a impish grin.

Ressler shrugs, as if that doesn't make him worried in the slightest. "Can't get much worse."

Reddington laughs loudly at that, his eyes mocking as he chuckles. "Oh, dear innocent Donald."

"Shut the hell up and tell me already," Ressler snaps.

Reddington lets his chuckles die down before he continues. "Sadly, to see this plan through to the end, we will need yet another member of your team. We will need to extract Mr. Mojtabai. We'll need his considerable skills for the technical side of things. Once we have enough information in an easily accessible format, I'd like Mr. Mojtabai to take over all the monitors, TVs, computers - ever screen connected to a network in every major city in the world."

Ressler nods as if he understands what Reddington is saying (he understands in that he could repeat it back, but he has yet to wrap his mind around the sheer hugeness of this plan). "Great. Then what will we do with those screens?"

"That, Dear Donald, is where you and Lizzie com in. You are well respected as FBI agents - well, you  _were_. Now you're public disgraces and are some of the most wanted criminals in the world."

It is physically hard for Ressler not to roll his eyes. "Reddington," he snaps, trying to keep the man on track.

"Regardless, as former FBI agents - agents working at a black site and with access to some of the most damning information in the world - you will be listened to. If not by everyone, then hopefully by enough people to make the world stop and listen. Because we will be in hiding, the goal is to plant information in the minds of those the Cabal has no reason to harm or stop. Knowledge is power, and power is what I hope to gain over the cabal by planting information in the minds of the masses."

"How exactly can we do that?" Ressler interrupts. "If the Cabal's corruption runs as deep as you say - if so many people throughout the world have risen to power through corruptions, lies, and death, then how can Liz and I talking on TV change anything?"

"Oh, ye of little faith!" Reddington exclaims, leaning forward to give Dembe more instructions. "If enough people believe, if there's enough negative information cast upon the people that we trust to lead our country, then there will inevitably be unrest. Unrest leads to distrust, to unhappiness with those in office and power, riots, discord... the hope is that even the Cabal will be unwilling to resort to mass murder of the public to dissuade the belief of evil and corruption. If we can cause those in power of the Cabal to tuck tail and run, as it were, then we can treat them as any other blacklisters and hunt them down as we continue our work at the Post Office. Nothing that you or Liz, or even I have done would be inexcusable in the light of the truth. It is the only plan I have come up with that makes sense. You once told me my business was information, and it _is_  and it's more powerful than many believe. The right information can ruin anyone - as Liz so unfortunately found out. Agent Ressler, we can stop them. They will not resort to mass murder, they will retreat and bide their time until they can begin their plan again."

Reddington pauses and takes a deep breath. "The time will come that we can use the fulcrum to tip their hand. Soon."

Ressler nods, mulling over Reddington's insane plan. The car is beginning to slow, and Ressler's feeling nervous and sick for more than one reason now. He feels strangely powerful, being such an integral part of Reddington's plan, crazy tough it may be. And despite the feelings of unease, powerlessness, and uncertainty that had overwhelmed him during the very long drive to Florida, he begins to feel that maybe he can help make a difference and help overturn the Cabal.

But also, he feels sick because the car is slowly pulling up a dirt road, and in the dim lights, all he can see are trees and - up ahead - a small cabin with lights on inside.

"We're here," Reddington announces, and with a flourish of his hand, his fedora adorns his head once more. He offers Ressler a quick grin before his door is opened by Dembe and he stalks off to the house.

"Lizzie!" he calls, and he opens his arms wide, pulling her into a hug as he reaches the front porch. Liz has been waiting, it looks like, for quite a while. Ressler is glued to his seat in the car, unable to move, but from his position he can see she's dressed in leggings and a long sweater, despite the summer warmth. Though, as he finally manages to force his numb limbs out of the car, he realizes that the weather in Florida is much nicer than the weather in New York. It's pleasant, and the soft wind and quiet chirping crickets and croaking frogs that surround him help calm him down as he walks toward the porch.

"Hi," he greets Liz, who has extracted herself from Reddington's arms (the older man had walked inside quickly, a knowing smile on his lips and while Ressler would like to roll his eyes or be annoyed at him, he realizes he can't because he's distracted by the woman in front of him).

"Hey," she returns his getting, and he can count on one hand the amount of times he's hugged her (touched her, really, he keeps mostly to himself and doesn't offer unnecessary comfort. But he pulls her into his arms them, and lets everything rush from him, take him over. He breathes raggedly. Despite the front he put up, he was scared and angry at being betrayed by his country. Liz, as always, sees through him in seconds.

"Welcome home," she adds, and he realizes in that moment that nothing has ever felt more like home than her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no excuses for my behavior. I am so sorry! I'm getting close to being done with this story, 4 more chapters! :)
> 
> Please Review! I thank everyone who has stuck with this story, I realize that not updating causes readers to stop reading and I respect that. Sorry again!


	11. Ch. 11

**May 22nd, 9:10 AM (Reddington's Safe House)**

Ressler huffs out a sigh of annoyance and flicks the paper he's holding across the table as he lets his head fall back. He's slumped in his seat, a cup of cold coffee clutched in his hands. Liz offers him an amused glance, letting her eyes flicker to the paper perched precariously on the edge of the dinner table.

Her amusement slips when she sees what he's reading, however -

_Vice President of the United States. The fulcrum has revealed -_

"It's truly fucked up how many people we trusted - those that  _w_ _e the people_  elected. They are so concerned for their own well-being and comfort that they are willing to lie, cheat,  _murder,_  and cover up some of the most despicable crimes that the world will never know about, Liz." He pauses and runs a hand through his already messy hair. He's had a shower and three hours of sleep, as well as about five cups of coffee. "It's astonishing that our country is so corrupt and we knew nothing about it, we said "yes, sir" and followed orders with blind faith. I feel... disgusting," he spits out, frowning at his coffee cup. "I feel absolutely disgusted with myself that I allowed myself to be drawn in by them,  _groomed_ by them, turned into an agent who would do their bidding without asking questions even when the orders were... wrong."

Liz doesn't speak. She can tell by the way he's shifting now, by the way he won't meet her eyes, that he's carried out more of those type of orders than he'd care to admit.

He scoffs, and she looks back up, her heart aching as she sees an expression of pure hatred on his face. What makes it worse is she knows he's feeling this way toward himself, instead of those who betrayed his trust and faith.

"Did you know, Liz, that when I was chasing Reddington, we had one goal. We were to capture him, bring him back for questioning. Not everyone cared about the causalities. The... the lives that were lost along the way. I - " He cuts himself off, rubbing his hand over his mouth as he stands and begins pacing in the small kitchen. He looks pale, tired, against the washed white walls. "I shot a kid, once. It doesn't matter that he was holding a gun, ready to kill  _me_. I shot a  _kid_. He couldn't have been more than ten. We were in Iraq, following a lead, and the kid was blocking our path and Reddington was getting away, and I was told to  _shoot or you'll lose Reddington_ , and so I did. I didn't question the order, I shot the kid - point blank, one bullet in his head - and later questioned  _my_  loyalty when I was throwing up from shock and disgust instead of wondering if the man giving the orders had a different agenda. I didn't think to wonder who the fuck could give that order without a second thought. I questioned  _myself_. I was too stupid to consider the fact that something bigger could be going on, that our own government could be capable of having their own agenda of which this child was not a part of."

Liz sighs and walks over to him, reaching up and smoothing his collar out. He'd changed into a pair of jeans offered by Reddington, but had chosen to keep his own white button-down on after his shower. The top two buttons are undone, and Liz shifts one of them beneath her fingertips as she gathers her thoughts.

"It wasn't your fault," she whispers, and she can feel Ressler beginning to pull away, so she grabs his collar with both hands and forces his eyes to meet hers. "No. Listen.  _Listen to me_. It wasn't your fault. No one should feel bad about the fact that they trusted someone else."

"Like a sheep lead to the slaughter, Liz," he says, and hopelessness descends on her as she sees his blank expression. He offers her a half smile, but it's not the comforting, childish grin she loves so much. This smile is so devoid of emotion that she sighs, her chest aching with the knowledge that she's not sure how to make him realize he's not at fault.

"Help me take these bastards down," he whispers, pressing his fingertips to her cheek, letting them follow a path to her rosy lips. He's angry, and he won't be convinced that he didn't let himself be used as a pawn in the Cabal's plan. But he's offering her an olive branch, and she grasps tightly to it - anything to keep him from pulling away from her.

"I will," she promises, and the smile he offers her this time is the ghost of the loyal, sarcastic Donald Ressler she hadn't seen since she'd been framed. She lets it comfort her (he's not pulling away, which she's thankful for since she just got him back).

They're still standing like that, Liz grasping Ressler's shirt in both hands, when Reddington walks in.

"Oh! Excuse me, I'll just come back in a minute, then," he exclaims, and Liz and Ressler jump apart, the latter of the two trying to smooth down his flyaway hair as he smothers a blush.

"Reddington, shut up and get over here," he snaps, and walks back to the table. "Help us make sense of all of this information you've given us. I haven't even the faintest idea what you'd like us to say on this recording."

The spell broken, Liz, too, walks back over to the table. She grabs their cold coffee and dumps it in the sink as Reddington begins shuffling through the mess they'd made. Liz starts a new pot of coffee, and as Reddington hears it begin percolating, he glances over and sighs, a small smile playing on the edge of his lips.

"Turn that off, Liz. You and Donnie need to get some sleep. This information isn't going anywhere, and you two have made such a  _lovely_  mess of it that it's going to take me hours to put back in some comprehensible order."

Liz rolls her eyes, but the urge to give in and sleep is so great she lets herself give in to his suggestion and shuts off the coffee. Ressler looks like he's ready to protest until he cuts himself off with a huge yawn.

As he's trying to stifle his yawning, Reddington grins. "Go.  _Sleep_. When you wake up, Dembe and I will help you decide what to say. Our first recording will be more... simple in nature. An introduction, if you will. To explain who you are and offer some easily accessible information to gain the trust of the public. Bread crumbs, trailed behind us for the mindless masses to follow."

Ressler looks as though he'd like to argue with Reddington about his word choice, but is caught off guard by another yawn and gives up. "Fine. We'll get a few hours of rest."

"Take your time, Donald! We're not going anywhere anytime soon," Reddington assured him as the two Special Agents begin their trek from the kitchen to the upstairs. "Sleep tight!"

Ressler is yawning once more as they reach the top of the stairs and Liz winces. "Uh, you took the couch earlier. We only have three rooms."

 _Liz. Reddington. Dembe._ Right. Where the hell were they going to put Aram when Reddington extracted him? Ressler figured he'd worry about that later, his brain power was steadily decreasing. "You have a twin bed?"

"No," Liz says, looking confused. "A queen."

Ressler nods, already toeing off his shoes and unbuttoning his jeans as he walks into her room. "Good. Plenty of room, then." As he shuffles out of his pants (leaving him in only his boxers and button-down), Liz stands (shocked) in the doorway. He looks back at her and grins sleepily. "Get over here. No need to worry, I'm too exhausted for any funny business." He crawls into her bed, on the left side (how he knew her favorite side was the right, she's not sure). He snuggles under the covers, patting the pillow beside him. As she gives in and crawls cautiously in beside him, he turns toward her, his glazed eyes catching her gaze. "I'm sorry, about earlier. I shouldn't have burdened you with all that."

She wants to slap him upside the head, because he doesn't know how to let others help him carry the enormous weight he's put on his own shoulders. He doesn't know how to share his pain.  _Years and years of failed missions (the feeling of being a failure growing each time they missed their target),_ _Audrey, Meera, the lives_  he'd _taken,_ _the simultaneous pain and victory of revenge taken, losing Cooper from the team, the demands of being the director, finding out everything he'd ever believed in was corrupt and turned against him_. He doesn't know how to share his burden and it frustrates her.

But, before she can knock some sense into him like she wants, he's asleep, and she finds he looks so peaceful in slumber that she can't help but follow him.

**4:20 PM**

Ressler stumbles sleepily down the stairs and heads straight to the kitchen. He's dressed presentably once more, even if his clothing is more rumpled than it was this morning.  _No_ fun _reason for being rumpled_ , he thinks in amusement as he takes a deep breath in. He can smell coffee, and he knows it means that Liz woke up before him and put on a fresh pot.  _Bless her_.

"You," he says accusingly, directing his words toward Reddington even though his gaze is preserved solely for the coffee machine (he knows the man is present in the room, because Donald Ressler has  _never_  met anyone else with as much  _presence_  as Raymond Reddington. "Let us sleep a whole hell of a lot longer than just a few hours."

"You looked so cozy with Lizzie, I couldn't  _bear_  waking you," Reddington teases, and Ressler spares him a glare over his fresh, boiling cup of coffee.

He nearly chokes on the rich, warm liquid when he sees not only Reddington, Liz, and Dembe at the table, but Aram as well. "What the hell?" he exclaims, wincing as he burns his tongue on his coffee. "How come Aram made it here in  _less than six hours_  and I had to drive for over 56?"

Reddington chuckles and Liz tries to hide her smile by taking another sip of her own coffee. Ressler notices that everyone has a cup, and wonders idly how long of a night it's going to be.

"Because he's not a wanted fugitive, and was able to take an airplane. You, Donald, have joined Liz and I on the Most Wanted list. Just imagine how good that will look on your resume when this is all over."

Ressler grunts in response, not caring to dignify Reddington's jabs at him with a response.

"Whatever. I suppose this means that your plan is underway, then."

"Indeed it is. Liz and I have been going over some information for the past hour or so and have come up with a delightfully juicy tidbit we can leak to gain the trust of those who are forced to listen. After we establish who you are and why you matter to the world, we are going to offer them an olive branch - someone corrupt enough to gain media attention, but someone who can be easily outed. No intensive detective work necessary." Reddington looks positively pleased with himself as he leans back and motions toward Aram. The younger man looks up at Ressler suddenly, looking for all the world like a deer in the headlights. He looks, Ressler decides with amusement, decidedly uncomfortable in the presence of Dembe and Reddington and so very out of place in the safehouse.

"Right. Uh." He looks around, sighing as he realizes he doesn't have anything to project his findings onto. He pauses, then grabs a piece of paper, thrusting it into Ressler's hands. "Meet Daniel Sims. He occupies a seat on the Senate. However, he gained that seat through the work of a man we know - er,  _knew_  - well. The Kingmaker. He murdered several people to get there, but the work was sloppy, kind of like the work done with Patrick Chandler. There was a trail, just no one knew to look for it, just like we wouldn't have known to investigate the death of Congressmen Chandler's wife if it weren't for Reddington. If people start looking into it - "

"And they will," Reddington cuts in, grabbing the paper from Ressler's hands before he has a chance to read it. "People  _love_  a good scandal."

" - Right. But if people start looking into it, they'll find that the Senate seat Sims now occupies was opened up through the questionable death of Michael Nunez. He was poisoned, but the man responsible for poisoning him cut corners to save money and the poison used was not as untraceable as The Kingmaker would have liked."

"Basically," Liz said, taking over as she watched Ressler's eyes glaze over with too many details and not enough coffee. "We will offer up someone who is easy to take down. When the people realize Sims is corrupt, they'll be more open to what we have to say and more likely to listen as we offer increasingly difficult information."

"The Cabal is going to be hunting us harder than ever before," Ressler cautions. Reddington nods.

"I know. We're taking precautions. Mr. Mojtabai is the best, our work will not be traced. We simply have to keep a lid on our public appearances from now on."

Reddington is grinning at Ressler as he utters the last sentence, and Ressler has a sinking feeling that his little... indiscretion with Liz will not be soon forgotten.

"Whatever. Tell me what I need to say and let's get this done."

**7:10 PM**

It's over three hours later that Ressler is sitting uncomfortably in a suit that's slightly too large for him, in front of a camera, with Liz at his side. She looks considerably more comfortable than him, in clothing that fits and wholly more prepared and cut out for this life than he is.

"You're not the slightest bit concerned that our faces are about to be plastered all over the world, spewing conspiracy theories and sowing corruption?"

Liz turns to him and smiles, taking his hand in her own. The camera clicks on and the red record light flashes. Liz doesn't let the fact that their small moment is being recorded bother her, and holds his gaze until he breathes out, more confident and less worried than before. She drops his hand and turns toward the camera.

"I am Special Agent Elizabeth Keen, and many of you know me from the papers, from TV, from posters inside malls and grocery stores. I am on the FBI's Top Ten Most Wanted list. I was accused of killing FBI Assistant Director Tom Connolly. I am here to tell you that the accusations are true, however they were for reasons I cannot explain right now, necessary. My partner, Special Agent Donald Ressler, and I have been framed for actions against the people of the United States that we did not commit. We are not terrorists, we are not cold blooded murders. We were simply agents doing our jobs, and in the course of doing our jobs, we made the decision to refuse to follow orders that were morally wrong."

Ressler cuts in, smoothly taking over. "I don't know what is being said about me, about what I have allegedly done. What I do know is that I have learned over the past few months that you cannot trust anyone. So don't trust our word - find out the truth for yourself. We will not reveal all we know today, perhaps not even soon. But we are here to tell you that the government you trust with your lives, the lives of your families, your children, your friends - that government is corrupt, and their goal is not your happiness, it is your compliance. If you do not give them that, they will burn you. They ruined my life, the life of my partner. They have ended countless other lives."

"Today," Liz took over, squeezing Ressler's hand briefly and letting it go, knowing how hard it was for him to publicly announce his perceived failures. "We simply offer you a bit of truth - a tiny portion of what we have to offer, of what we have learned during the course of our investigation. A man named Daniel Sims occupies a seat on the Senate. He earned it through careful grooming throughout his entire life. His family, his schools, his wife, his jobs were all carefully chosen to make him the perfect candidate. His seat was secured through the murder of Michael Nunez. He was poisoned, but the poison used was not as untraceable as Sims would have liked. So don't trust our word - find your own truth. And, when you do, we'll be here waiting, with more truth to offer you."

The camera shuts off and Liz slumps, her hands shaking as she turns to Ressler.

"We did it," she says, and Ressler grins, pulling her close and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Aram looks out from behind the camera and grins. "Awesome. We got all of it. I'll get to work on broadcasting this all over the world."

Ressler begins chuckling, and Liz pokes him in the arm, grinning up (happy to hear the sound of his genuine laughter for the first time in weeks). "What's so funny?"

"What has our life become that Aram telling us he's going to go work on broadcasting our video to the  _entire world_  seems normal?!"

Realizing he's right, Liz can't help but chuckle as he pulls her closer to him, letting her rest her head on his chest. They stay like that for a long time, comfortable and completely silent, their breath mingling as they unconsciously synchronize their in and our breaths.

It's the calmest Ressler has been since Liz called him on the phone, admitting she'd murdered Tom Connolly.

Aram ruins the moment, however, when he comes sliding back into the room only minutes later.

"We're ready," he announces, and the calm is shattered as Ressler leads Liz back into the kitchen where Aram has set up what seems like hundreds of pieces of technology with thousands of wires filling every outlet on the wall. (If the power surge doesn't let the Cabal know where they are, Ressler muses, he doesn't know what will. A smoke signal, perhaps?)

"And!" Aram exclaims, fingers flying across the keyboard as he puts the final touches on his (hopefully un-hack-able) program. "Just in time for the evening news." He looks up to Reddington, his index finger hovering over the 'enter' key on his keyboard.

Reddington nods, and Ressler flinches as Aram presses the button. Suddenly, every screen in the room is taken over by darkness, and then the image they'd recorded (Liz grabbing his hand, staring at him for a few seconds, and then turning toward the screen) is all he can see.

_"I am Special Agent Elizabeth Keen, and ..."_


	12. Chapter 12

 

**May 23rd, 2:05 AM, Reddington's Safe House**

It's well after midnight before Aram has shut down his computers and they've finished filing away all of Reddington's gathered information. The reporters they'd left in New York, Ressler muses, rubbing his eyes and biting back a yawn, have done a lot of work -  _good_  work - and if he has any say in it, they are going to be well compensated for risking their lives when (if) he got his position as Acting Director back.

"Aaaaaand... done," Liz announces, sweeping the last stack of papers off of the table with a flourish. She deposits them into one of Reddington's carefully labeled boxes, snapping the top closed and leaning heavily against it.

Ressler is about to grab Liz and demand they go to bed (he's not entirely certain he's above falling asleep standing up, at this point) when Reddington walks into the room, tired and somber.

"Thank you," he says simply, resting his hand on Ressler's shoulder as Liz slumps over to his side, resting her head on his chest. Ressler is sorely tempted to wrap his arms around her, but he's bright enough to resist that particular temptation while Reddington is standing right next to him. Ressler does, however, grin down at her as he nods in Reddington's direction, acknowledging his thanks. But the older man hasn't said all he has planned, apparently, because he shifts until he's facing the tired duo and continues talking. "Thank you, for everything. When I first came into the Post Office and demanded to talk to Lizzie, I had no idea this would be the eventual fallout. My presence is what caused this upheaval in your lives. I remember," he reflects, his gaze growing far away as he chuckles, his lips lifting in a half grin. "The first time I saw you at the post office, Liz. So different. So different than I expected, with a fire in you that you've proven cannot be put out. And Donald - Dear Donald - you are her anchor. You keep her grounded. She's too much... too much like me, a free and possibly often illegal spirit. You give her a reason to stay anchored in the real world, and I can never thank you enough for that."

Ressler doesn't know what to say so he ends up not saying anything, which he regrets immensely because Reddington does not open up - ever. Liz is better with feelings, he decides as she responds to Reddington by moving from Ressler's chest to wrap the older man in a hug. She rests her head on his chest, and then leans up to kiss his cheek. She smiles, and her smile seems to say everything that needs said, because Reddington accepts it and walks quietly out of the room, leaving Liz and Ressler standing close but not close enough.

"Bed?" she asks, and Ressler tries not to get excited that she chose to use the word "bed" instead of "sleep", but it's two in the fucking morning and he has little control over the parts of his body that react positively to the word  _bed_.

"For  _sleep_ ," Liz monotones as she notices his reaction.

"Hey, can't blame a guy for trying," he shrugs, grinning as he pulls her close, kissing her forehead and then her cheek. She's the one who finally shifts so their lips slide together, softly, gently, a barley-there touch that has Ressler tingling from his lips to his toes.

He breathes out slowly, grinning against her lips. "You're  _sure_?" he asks, and she slaps his arm playfully, laughing as she walks ahead of him out of the room.

"That wasn't a  _no_!" he shouts after her, watching her walk from the room, and he's spurred into motion when she casts a sly look back over her shoulder. His feet are moving so fast he's surprised he doesn't trip.

He follows her amused chuckle all the way up the stairs and into their shared room.

He follows her sleepy smiles through the motions of changing out of the clothes they'd worn for the video.

He follows her unspoken request to join her closer than normal on her side of the bed.

As he follows her, he adds the sounds of her amused laughter, her sleepy sighs, and her quieted moans to the list of his favorite sounds.

His favorite sound of all, though, is her soft sigh of happiness as she snuggles to his side when it's all over, completely content and warm in his embrace.

**May 23rd, 11:56 AM, Reddington's Safe House**

Ressler groans as he rolls over, cursing the bright sunlight that's streaming through the upstairs window. His head is aching and he knows that if he opens his eyes, the warmth pressed against his eyelids will blind him for many minutes.

"Open your eyes, you big baby," Liz scoffs in amusement, swatting his backside as she pulls the blankets off of their shared bed.

Ressler yelps and opens his eyes in surprise, blinking harshly against the sunlight. He grumbles something about pushy girlfriends before trying to snuggle back into the pillows, but there's something highly undignified about snuggling into pillows when one is stark naked and he sighs, knowing he's lost this battle. He rolls over onto his back, feeling slightly more confident when his ass is no longer on display.

"I'm taking a shower," Liz says, and the glance she tosses over her shoulder as she walks (naked as the day she was born) into the attached bathroom let's him know it's an invitation and motivation to get his ass out of bed all in one.

He joins her in the shower, and after they dress and walk downstairs, he tries not to snort coffee through his nose when Aram offhandedly comments, "We ran out of hot water this morning."

Reddington's grin can only be described as "shit-eating" and Ressler tries not to let it bother him as he takes another sip of coffee. "That's  _odd_ ," he says, grinning up at Ressler and Liz. "The hot water heater in this house is quite large. Someone - or two someones - would have had to take an  _amazingly_  long shower to use all the hot water."

Liz looks mortified (much like one would look if their father found out they'd had sex under his roof the previous night, Ressler decides) as she stirs sugar into her own coffee. She joins Ressler, Reddington, and Aram at the table, though with considerably more room between her and the object of her mortification than Ressler would have preferred.

"What's on the agenda today?" she asks into the stifling silence, and it's such an obvious change of topic that no one dares comment on it. Reddington, still grinning his signature, smarmy grin, takes another sip of coffee and leans back in his chair.

"We will record a second statement. Based on the response we've already received, it is eagerly awaited. Here, turn on the news," he says, sliding the remote across the table. Liz grabs at it as it flies across the table, clumsily setting down her coffee and wrapping her slender fingers around the black remote. She turns toward the small TV that sits on the kitchen counter and flicks the 'on' button as everyone turns around, watching with bated breath as the TV flickers to life.

_"Responses are flooding in from across the globe_ ," the young woman reports, and she looks impressively put together for the worry etched across her face.  _"Officials from several different governments are responding to these allegations in obvious disbelief. Many wonder if Liz Keen and Donald Ressler are to be believed - not just about Daniel Sims, but also about our entire government, and governments across the world. Daniel Sims, who occupies a seat on the senate and, until last night, lived peacefully with his wife and son, has fallen off the radar. Those who believe the accusations against him are accusing him of running and hiding, but he still has many supports who are arguing that he's just protecting his family from the fallout. Regardless of what the truth is, there is unrest among the people. There have been riots outside the senate, demanding to see Sims, demanding to know the truth. But no matter what the truth is - whether we have reason to fear we've been lied to by the government that we put out trust in - it will soon be uncovered."_

The news report ends, and Ressler realizes he's holding his coffee cup to his lips without drinking when the weatherman steps onto the screen. He mentally shakes himself from surprise, and takes a sip of coffee as Liz changes the channel. She flips through two family TV shows before settling on a talk show. They all watch raptly as the two men begin to speak.

_"So, David, tell me how you feel about these new allegations against Daniel Sims."_

The man on TV - a well-known talk show host that Ressler is sure he's seen before - shifts in his seat before grinning, obviously loving the attention this scandal has brought his show.

_"I've long believed that there is corruption in our government. While I don't yet know if I believe this Keen and Ressler, I do know that I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if they were telling the truth."_

_"If they were being blackmailed?"_ the other man asks, and Liz's eyes flicker between the two deceptively calm men on the screen.

_"If they were being blackmailed,"_  the first, David, agrees, nodding.  _"If they know something the government doesn't want them to know, I'm surprised they're not dead!"_

Ressler swallows hard, and puts down his coffee cup. He needs to focus all of his attention on the screen. It's drawing him in, and he finds himself leaning closer as David begins to speak again.

_"Regardless of whether it's reality or fantasy,"_ he says, a twinkle in his eyes as he addresses his audience.  _"I, for one, am eager to hear the rest of this "truth" they've promised us."_

Liz clicks off the TV, and the silence is almost overwhelming until Reddington speaks.

"It's been like that since last night. There have been reports of riots outside the senate, attempted break-ins at the Sims home, actual break-ins, death threats, and absolutely no sign of Sims since about twelve seconds after we broadcasted. The world is on fire over this, outraged at the deception of Sims - deception every organization with more than two initials have been looking into since you aired - and we need to use it to our advantage. Something bigger this time, but not too big. A dangling carrot, if you will!"

Aram clears his throat, and holds up a hand as he grabs something from the pile of files he has sitting next to him. He finished his cup of coffee in three quick swallows, and clears his throat again. By this time, everyone is looking at him expectantly.

"I couldn't sleep last night," he explains, his eyes flashing briefly to the ancient couch in the living room, and Ressler isn't surprised he couldn't. The thing just  _looks_  uncomfortable. "So I went through these files, ordering them from small fry - Sims - to the biggest story that we would dare go public with before the public has found their proof and are buying in."

Ressler waits, tapping his foot anxiously on the floor. Liz, beside him, is almost twitching in anticipation. She seems calm enough, Ressler supposes, but he can tell by the way her eyes are flickering between Aram, Reddington, and him, that she's unsure of what to do or how to react to any of this.

"Right. The reporters discovered a doctor, Dr. -uh," Aram looks into the file again, opening and closing it quickly. "Dr. Benedict Amador. He, uh, works for the Cabal, we're assuming, because he is paid far more than what even a surgeon of his standing should normally be paid. Reddington and I believe that he's working for a man like Dr. James Covington, through obviously not Covington himself, since he's no longer on the Blacklist. He is the doctor on call for the Cabal, you could say. He treats their wounded, pushes them forward on organ recipient lists, and could possibly be connected to a few suspicious, medical deaths recently."

"Deaths that benefited the Cabal, I assume," Ressler asks, picking through the file Aram has given him. He sees autopsy reports from several people - reporters, insurance company representatives - and knows what Aram is going to say before he says it.

"People who were getting too close to the truth. Reporters, other doctors sticking their noses into Amador's business. That kind of thing. Even one random patient, who overhead what he shouldn't have. Complications of surgery was the listed cause of death, but only days before Amador had listed the man as perfectly healthy. A nurse overheard the patient asking Amador about something, though she wouldn't say what, and she said they sounded angry before Amador stalked out of the patients room. He was dead before morning."

"Right. Ok. We can work with this," Liz says, reading over Ressler's shoulder as he flips through the file. She has her (mostly empty) coffee cup in one hand, and the other is resting gently on Ressler's shoulder, which is far more distracting than it should be and also not helping him concentrate. "We can use this information to cast doubt on this doctor. If our allegations toward Sims are found to be true - "

"When," Reddington cuts in, because he's nothing if not confident of his work and his findings. He's smiling, leaning back in his chair and twirling a pencil between his fingers.

Liz nods, rolling her eyes and offering Reddington a small smile. " _When_  our allegations against Sims are found to be true, people will be more likely to believe us. We can't cripple the Cabal with these moves, but we can give them something to fear."

Ressler nods, templing his fingers together and leaning forward on the table, attempting to concentrate as Liz leans more heavily into him. He clears his throat. "So. Do we have a script this time?"

Aram looks between the two (ex)agents. "You didn't last time. It was fine," he says, and then passes a copy of the file over. "But you should both study up on this before ... ah, presenting," he finishes lamely.

Liz nods and sits down, this time much closer to Ressler. She seems to have forgotten her earlier mortification at being found out by Reddington as she leans into his side, tucking her feet under her on the chair and resting her back on his shoulder, settling in as she places the file on her knees and begins to read through it. For lack of anything better to do in the sudden silence, Ressler flips back to the beginning of his copy and begins reading.

_Dr. Benedict Amador, 46, graduated from the University if Michigan in 1992 ..._

**May 23rd, 11:45 PM (Reddington's Safe House)  
**

_It's weird_ , he thinks later, as he watches himself on TV from where he's perched on the armrest of Aram's uncomfortable couch.  _Seeing himself and hearing himself and not really being able to connect the fact that he's on TV trying to disband a corrupt group of government officials_.

It doesn't feel like he's on the run, he decides as Liz, who's sitting on the end of the couch with her head in his lap, sighs and turns her head away from the TV. It's the third time they've watched their own broadcast amidst frantic news programs, talk shows, and from brief clips interspersed with footage of the fallout that their newest video had caused. He winces - bloodshed and death was not what he wanted, but there had been a few casualties from riots and protests. 

His own voice washes over him, and he feels strangely detached a she watches the beginning of their broadcast again.

_"I'm afraid that we, as a country, will never know the full truth, or uncover all of the lies. Those we trust implicitly have been shown to be untrustworthy. One such person is Dr. Benedict Amador. Dr. Amador has murdered, in cold blood, innocent people who were only trying to uncover the truth. One man, Everett Cole, had by some miracle survived his third surgery and had been pronounced cancer free when he overheard his doctor speaking of evils he had committed. He could have walked away, pretended he had heard nothing, but because Everett was a man of integrity, he couldn't let this slide, and he was killed for speaking out. He was survived by his wife and two daughters, ages 3 and 7. The girls were shocked and heartbroken at the news of losing their father, since their mother had just told them that daddy was coming home - "_

"Turn it off," Liz mumbles, her face pressed into Ressler's stomach. He nods and reached for the controller, cutting off his own voice as he presses the 'off' button. Liz curls closer to him and sighs, and he feels the muscles of his stomach contract as her warm breath washes over him.

"Will this ever end?" she asks, and he doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. Instead, he runs his fingers through her hair, equal parts trying to calm her and trying to calm his own doubts and uncertainty.

_It will. It has to_ , he thinks as he stands up, pulling Liz with him because it's time for them to go to bed - it's been a long day, and they have to be ready for whatever tomorrow brings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an important revelation! ... I am a horrible person. *hides in shame* Really, Ella, a whole MONTH?! This story has been extended, because the end of the last chapter and the next one I had planned didn't match up well, so this chapter was an extra to fill in space and show the growing unrest of the people. I know I am a horrible person, but if you're still reading after my unexplained disappearance, PLEASE let me know what you think! :)
> 
> Please Review!


	13. Chapter 13

**May 25th, 4:00 PM (Reddington's Safe House)**

_"At this time, no one knows where Dr. Amador is. According to the Chief of Surgery at King's County Hospital Center in Brooklyn, Dr. Amador left immediately after performing a triple bypass surgery last night, not bothering to finish the rest of his scheduled surgeries. His family hasn't heard from him, and the hospital has had to rush to cover his schedule. This has left many of us at the studio, and I'm sure many others in the city, wondering, are Elizabeth Keen and Donald Ressler right?"_  The news reporter laughs, and it seems to Ressler like she's enjoying the scandal, which, to be fair, she probably is - she's a reporter, after all. _"Only time will tell. We in the studio are eagerly awaiting the next broadcast. In other news..."_

Ressler flicked the channel button, yawning as he switched to yet another local news program.

_"Dr. Amador has, indeed, been defrauded - whether this is a ploy by Agents Keen and Ressler to make the public trust them before trying sewing conspiracy theories can only be guessed at. But, they were right about Dr. Amador. Offshore accounts link him to a dozen high-ranking officials, whose names will not yet be released. In the meantime, Dr. Amador and those in connection to him have fallen off the radar. Their absence will soon be noticed by the public, as judges, doctors, teachers, and lawyers alike have disappeared, all seemingly connected to Dr. Amador."_

Ressler knew they were making progress - slowly but surely - but watching the programs made him sick, anyway.

He's pulled from his thoughts when the other side of the couch depresses. He doesn't have to look up to know it's Reddington, because the man begins speaking almost immediately.

"Sickening, isn't it?" he begins conversationally, and Ressler nods almost imperceptibly. "That so many were involved. We outed Benedict Amador, and 13 others go missing, presumably in hiding. This won't be taken lightly by the Cabal, or forgiven quickly."

"We're well hidden," Ressler comments, because they are. There's little to no chance of their safe house being found. Reddington, resourceful as always, had created the house to be completely of the grid, save for the occasional connections Aram had to make to broadcast their videos. But even then, he had rerouted their connection through hundreds, possibly even thousands, of dummy accounts and bounced their signal all over the globe. If they hadn't been found already, the chances of it happening were slim. He was confident in that, but not so much their ability to actually re-join the community after all was said and done.

Finally, he sighs, because Reddington likely knows what he's thinking, anyway. "Can we ever go back? Even if we take down the Cabal, can we go back to being agents and helping people, or do we hide out the rest of our lives?"

"Well," Reddington begins, and he's grinning so Ressler knows he won't get a straight answer. "You could always just stick with me and Dembe. Rouge agents, saving the world from the shadows. No, I don't think you'll have to hide forever. A while, maybe, to let things die down."

Ressler nods, happier with the answer than he expected to be.

"But, until then, we have work to do. Come on, you and Liz are up," Reddington said, lifting himself from the couch with a flourish. He heads into the kitchen and Ressler follows moments later, resigned and a little eager to see what Aram and Liz have come up with this time.

"A slightly larger target this time," Aram explains as he sits down. "Or, at least, one that will cause global outrage instead of localized. Molly Porter is part of an organization that offers relief to citizens after major disasters. She went international over ten years ago. She works with hundreds of relief organizations, including well-known names like Red Cross, Action Against Hunger, Doctors Without Borders, IMO, IFRC, MCC, the Mercy Corps... it's a long list. She's a part of them all, a temp worker, if you will. She doesn't spend long in one place at any one time, instead she bounces back and forth between organizations as a volunteer. She works in accounting, balancing their books, and she's stolen  _billions_  from them, for the Cabal. The reaction to this one will go one of two ways - people will decide you're conspiracy theorists and ignore you, or ... " Aram looks hesitant, his eyes shifting nervously from person to person as he places the case file on the table. "It could get bloody. These organizations will not take this news lightly. They spend their blood, sweat, and tears to help people across the globe, and Molly Porter has been stealing from them for ten years."

Ressler is worn out, mentally and physically, so he doesn't devote much brainpower to Aram's worries. "People are going to get ugly eventually, anyway - that's what we're basing our success on. Fear tactics, played against the Cabal. We need the masses to believe us, because if we give the Cabal time to discredit us, we will lose. We need to convince the public we should be listened to, and we need to do it soon. This is a perfect topic, because it's a case of the rich stealing from the poor, and people  _hate_ that. We'll essentially be Robin Hood, but instead of giving he money back, we'll be giving them the person who stole in the first place."

Liz is nodding, staring at Ressler with a small smile on her lips. She's holding a copy of the case file, opening it and motioning him over. He joins her side of the table, and opens his own copy of the file.

Before he can begin reading, Reddington pipes up. "Ms. Porter is, by herself, a small target. The point you need to get across is that she's been stealing money not for herself, but for the others who are a part of this Cabal. You need to tell the public where this money has gone - to line the pockets of those in power, to fund terror all over the world. The whole world needs to feel the ... the  _injustice._ They need to feel  _disgusted_  that anyone could do this - especially someone who they trusted."

Ressler nods thoughtfully, and then slaps his file down on the table before standing quickly to his feet. "Aram, I need your internet skills."

"What are you thinking?" Liz asks, closing her file and looking up in interest.

"I'm thinking," he says, and he offers her a cocky grin. "That I need to polish up my powerpoint making skills. I won first place in a debate contest in high school thanks to those skills, you know."

"Powerpoint is ... not cool anymore," Aram offers lamely, and Ressler rolls his eyes.

"Whatever. I'm thinking that people are moved by those crappy commercials, the ones with the sad dog pictures, right? God, I see those _everywhere_ , and women have tears in their eyes and blubber pathetically.  _So_ ," he says, moving on quickly as Liz shoots him a glare. "We can do the same thing, right? There are horrible, devastating pictures of the disasters these organizations have helped with, you know? They're all over the internet. Doctors Without Borders, that was a  _huge_  thing during the Ebola scare. I remember googling Ebola and seeing these... these pictures of people in hazmat suits holding dying children, and  _that's_  who Ms. Porter has been stealing from, right?"

Reddington is smiling widely at Ressler, while Liz mulls over his words. "My  _word_ , Donald, we may yet make a rogue agent out of you. Fan _tastic_! Aram, let's see what we can do," he says, and Ressler feels himself glowing with pride at Reddington's comment, until he realizes that Reddington never gives a full compliment - only disguised jabs - and wipes the confident grin off of his face. He huffs instead, shrugging his shoulders and walking to look over Aram's shoulder as the man begins his search. Liz is already behind Aram, and bumps Ressler on the shoulder as he approaches.

 _Good idea_ , she mouths to him, and he smiles at her, winking, before turning toward the screen.

**6:00 PM**

Ressler has his body turned away from the screen displaying the pictures they'd searched up earlier, because honestly they're a little hard to look at. Hurricane Katrina, photos from Doctors Without Borders, the World Health Organization... they're a little hard to stomach, which he knows is  _good_ , because maybe it will make people stop and look. The plan, he reminds himself, is for him and Liz to talk in front of the screen, using the pictures to drive their point home.

Aram nods, and Ressler sees the red dot indicating they're live. He clears his throat, and looks back at Liz, though his eyes are immediately caught by the picture of a woman crying in anguish, holding the body of her small child.

He can't speak for a moment, and when he does, he knows that he sounds weak, and he  _hates_ it, but hopefully his weakness will be put to good use. He sees the steely determination in Liz's eyes mix with the tears she won't allow herself to shed, so he clears his throat, and turns back to the screen.

"This photo is from Doctors Without Borders, during the 2014 Ebola outbreak. During this epidemic, hundreds of doctors walked into a situation they knew could be dangerous - deadly even. They didn't do it for the glory, or the money, but to help people."

The next slide is a picture of a make shift hospital, with  _hundreds_  of men, women, and children filling the beds - if they could be called that.

"Thousands of people died. This," he said, as Aram flipped to the next slide. "Is the aftermath of an earthquake in Zhaotong, China, which killed over 600 people. World Vision offered helped to some 133,000 people who were displaced or injured by offering food, clean water, clothes, and a place to sleep."

Aram flips the slide, and Liz takes over. "Closer to home was the chilling tornado in Joplin, Missouri, which was the only tornado in the past fifteen years to make the top ten list of most devastating tornadoes. Once again, organizations like Red Cross and the Salvation Army offered money, food, shelter, and hope to those affected."

"What do they all have in common, you ask?" Ressler breaks in, ignoring the pictures that are now changing rapidly behind him, showing devastation and heartbreak. "A woman named Molly Porter. Ms. Porter has, at one point, worked for many of these relief organizations we've just mentioned. She works in accounting, behind the scenes - a name no one will recognize or take a second look at."

"But what people don't realize, is that while rescuers and volunteers were opening their hearts and homes, Molly Porter was skimming off the top of every donation given, every dollar spent to help people who didn't know where they would sleep, or where their next meal would come from. Molly Porter is a part of this... clandestine organization we've been begging you to accept the reality of. Molly Porter stole a total of 13  _billion_  dollars from these relief funds, and we have the proof. Like with Benedict Amador, we will be sending a copy of these reports to every major news outlet. If you choose to believe us - to believe that our government isn't everything you'd like to believe it is, you have your proof. It's up to you to decide for yourself if it's true."

The camera clicks off, and Ressler breathes a sigh of relief.

Now, to wait.

**May 26th, 7:15 PM**

" -  _Reports are flooding in from all over the globe, proof from each relief organization that they have, indeed, had money stolen from them. Some organizations report millions missing, while others only lost a few hundred thousand. Just last night, Molly Porter was caught trying to flee her current job in Maryland, and was shot down by one of the rioters. After being rushed to the hospital, Ms. Porter died in the early hours of the night. A suspect is in custody, but the community is rallying around the man known as Brett Olson, and many bystanders report seeing Olson, unarmed, elsewhere as the shot was taken. It's look as though Olson will_ not _take the fall for his crime. And even if the case goes to court, we at the studio believe they'd be hard pressed to find a jury would would prosecute, however - "_

 _" - Now that Molly Porter's bank records have been made public, it was only too easy to link her to several high-ranking officials. In a shocking turn, the_ Vice President _has been linked to Ms. Porter through campaign funds from the 2012 election. It looks as though Agent Ressler and Agent Keen may be right on this one, but only time will tell how deep the corruption runs."_

 _" - I didn't believe it at first, either, David! But the evidence is too compelling. A doctor found pulling stings for a United Stated Senator, 13 people going missing in the aftermath of that broadcast, a Senator himself gaining his position through murder and deceit, and now this - a woman funding the Vice President's election campaign with money stolen from Doctor's Without Borders in the midst of their efforts to help with the Ebola outbreak. I, for one, am_ dying _to hear more."_

_"I'm curious as well, Stanley, but also a little afraid for our country. The Vice President. No one saw that one coming."_

_"No, David, they sure didn't. And I think I can speak for most of the population of the United States when I say, I'm questioning everything I've ever believed about our government and our country. And it's making it hard to sleep at night."_

_"Too true, Stan. Too true. In other news - "_

Liz flicks the TV off, burrowing closer to Ressler as she tries to block out the image of riots, of those - probably innocent - that had been killed during the riots outside Molly Porter's work building, outside the white house.

"We're going to be responsible for World War III," she groans, burying her face in Ressler's side.

"Not true," Reddington pipes up from his position in the doorway. He is grinning, dressed down in a flannel and a pair of pressed slacks. "The devastation caused by our little uprising wouldn't even rate at the  _bottom_  of a list of casualties from war. Not yet, anyway," he adds, walking into the room.

"We're making pretty good progress," Ressler notes, motioning toward the TV, where only moments before they had been watching footage from the riots outside the White House. "The President is on lockdown. People broke into the  _White House_. The  _White House_ , Reddington. Guards were slaughtered, the first family put in danger. Now, I don't know if the president is dirty or not, but his two children are innocent and people are taking this way out of proportion."

"But that is exactly what we want, dear Donald," Reddington says. "If we want to force the Cabal into hiding, to make them truly fear all that we know and can do, then there is no other way. My journalists have been working hard to uncover this information and to get it to us, the least we can do in honor of their lives - the lives some of them have given in the pursuit of truth - is to give the public that knowledge and let them do with it what they will."

Ressler sighs. "I know. I just don't see how we're going to come out of this. No one will ever trust us again, the FBI, the government."

"Not true," Reddington says again, though he doesn't seem smug or self-righteous this time. Instead, he seems contemplative, twirling his hat in his hand as he speaks. "People want someone to believe in. They always have and they always will. A hero, if you will. And by being the ones to admit all your faults, to be the ones to give them the truth... the people will believe in  _you_ , Donald. You and Lizzie. You and Lizzie are the ones fighting  _against_  the evil. Just watch, when this is all over, people will come to you, to ask,  _can we trust this person_? And you will - we  _all_  will - be responsible for pointing the American people in the right direction."

It's a scary thought, Ressler realizes, being someone's role model. An even scarier thought to be the one an  _entire country_  looks up to.

Reddington speaks up once more.

"While we're on that topic," he says, and his irritating cheeriness is back. "I need you and Liz in the kitchen again. It's time to tell the American people a story."

**8:13 PM**

"My name is Elizabeth Keen, and two years ago I knew nothing of this shadow government, of top secret FBI blacksites. I woke up one morning next to my husband, a loving man who I believed was my whole world. Tom Keen, was his name, or at least that was the name I knew him by. I was late for my first day as a profiler, and I had just stepped in dog pee."

Ressler chuckles beside her, and holds her hand as she continues. She grins at him, and looks back at the camera.

"That was the beginning of my story. Of  _this_  story. I suppose you could say... once upon a time, I stepped outside of my house, and was greeted with a helicopter and an uptight FBI agent known as Donald Ressler. And that was the moment my life changed forever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, I could end it there. I could leave it up to everyone's imagination. THAT WOULD BE SUCH A COOL ENDING! But, alas, I have 2 more chapters planned. *sigh*
> 
> Please comment, and let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, I got a thing called TUMBLR! Foooooooollow meeeeee: http://ellitheria.tumblr.com/


	14. Chapter 14

**_July 25th, 5:00 PM (Reddington's Safe House)_ **

_"It has been one month to the day since Elizabeth Keen and Donald Ressler came out to the world with their story - the story that changed our lives, and not all for the better. While it is true that many Americans feel safer knowing that those in power of the Cabal have disappeared — for good, we hope — many others feel apprehension knowing that they are still at large. It has been a road filled with lies and unrest, but today we see the end of that road as the Vice President is put on trial. Just minutes ago, the verdict was given - guilty. Vice President Matthewson will face life in prison for the acts of terrorism he committed against the people, including Elizabeth Keen."_

Ressler is packing with perhaps a tiny bit more force than necessary. He shoves his shirts, pants, socks, and toiletries into his bag and zips it closed with one final yank.

_"Special Agent Donald Ressler has been cleared of all charges, including a charge of terrorism and betrayal of his country. He has been pardoned for his actions against the country based on the decision of a panel of judges who believed he was working for the greater good. Though he admitted to working in tandem with notorious criminal Raymond Reddington and former FBI agent Elizabeth Keen - who was outed as a Russian spy formally known as Masha Rostova - it was decided that working with them to end the nefarious crimes of the Cabal was a means to an end - the end of the Cabal, as it turns out. Agent Ressler will resume his work with the FBI, though there are no details as of yet as to where that work will be resumed. It has been speculated - "_

"Are you excited to be going home, Donald?" an annoyingly cherry voice intones, interrupting the reporter. Ressler rolls his eyes, his hands clenching on the handles of his bag.

"You know damn well I am not  _excited_ , or anything other than completely pissed."

"Not to worry. Elizabeth will not spend long where she is."

Reddington is leaning against the wall of the bedroom that Ressler and Liz had shared over the past month. There are pieces of her everywhere - her comb on the dresser, her pajama pants, thrown haphazardly across the bed in her hurry to leave the morning before. Her pillow, pushed up right against his because she liked to use him as a personal heater. He sees her everywhere, and each item of hers reminds him so viscerally of when, instead of Liz coming out of the courtroom doors, two officers had walked in. It reminds him of her being led away in chains, of her final look - so scared, but ultimately accepting, because she thought she  _deserved_  this, deserved to be locked up. It reminds him of the previous night, which he'd spend most of awake, tossing and turning because she wasn't there.

Ressler clenches his fists angrily.

"It's ridiculous that I was pardoned of all crimes, but Liz wasn't! You promised," he hisses, voice lower this time as he tosses his bag over his shoulder. "You promised that she'd be pardoned. That they would see her actions as necessary to protect her life and to expose the cabal."

"I did," Reddington says regretfully, his eyes downcast as he speaks. "I shouldn't have. I was high on the feeling of success, of the FBI's agreement to meet you in private, to hear you out. I was wrong," he admits, and strangely it doesn't make Ressler feel any better, because he had been searching for her, fighting for her, so that she  _wouldn't_  end up in an iron cage, and then they'd walked straight into the courtroom, neatly pressed and hopeful because of their success and, ultimately, so, so wrong.

He remembers walking from he courtroom after kissing her on the cheek, believing Reddington's words even though he had warned Liz against believing the man hundreds, thousands of times before. He'd believed that she'd be pardoned, like him, and that they would go home together.

"Regardless, Donald, trust me - Liz will not be spending many nights away from you."

"Forgive me if trusting you is a little difficult," Ressler snaps.

"I wish I could reassure you that she'll be fine. I wish it more than anything, Donald, but you were just cleared and you can not be found complicit in what I'm about to do."

Ressler wants to nod - he understands, he does, but his understanding does not outweigh his anger.

Instead, he begins walking from the room, because he doesn't know how much longer he can stay here, with Reddington, in the room where Liz is so painfully  _not_.

"You'll need to pack her things. Send them to my apartment, so they'll be ready for her."

Reddington nods, and leans more heavily against the door as Ressler walks down the stairs, and out the door. He lets out a tired breath as the front door slams and the sound of Dembe's car coming to life fills the air.

His eyes slip closed, and he feels more weary than he's felt in a long time, the weight of a thousand lives resting heavily on his shoulders.

"Sir?" a voice asks, and he snaps himself from his revere and walks out of the room. He turns to greet the voice with a smile - plastered in place, hiding the weight of the world.

"Yes, Liza?" he questions, straightening his cuffs and his jacket.

"We're ready, whenever you are. We can move anytime now that Agent Ressler is gone."

Reddington nods, artfully places his fedora on his head, and gives the young woman a 100-watt grin.

"Wonderful. Do ready the car. I'll be right down."

**July 27th, 7:30 AM**

Ressler sighs, sitting up in bed and regarding his plain, light green walls tiredly. He is exhausted, a product of tossing and turning and trying to block out the nightmares - but his skin feels like a live wire, thrumming, every inch of him awake and angry, wanting to join the fight, to bust Liz out of prison and bring her home with him.

He sighs and drops his head into his hand. There's stubble on his cheeks, and he knows he'll have to shave before heading into work, because Liz hates it when -

"Damn it!" he shouts, smacking his pillow in frustration as he stands to his feet.

The past three months had been pointless. Sure, they'd forced the Cabal into hiding against, forced them to bide their time, to operate from the shadows and give up all their power, but in the end, he'd lost the one thing he'd been most passionate about saving - Liz. He'd let her go, accepted a bullet in his shoulder, left the FBI, which meant so much to him, become a criminal on the run -  _all for her_. And he'd lost her anyway, because he'd agreed to Reddington's plan, to let a panel of judges hear their story - the whole story - in person. He'd risked both of their lives by walking into that court room, and he'd lost.

He wants to believe Reddington. He does, but he finds it so hard when he walks around his apartment, eerily quiet in the early morning hours. He's alone, which he'd always been before, but it's different because he and Liz had spent so much time talking about what it would be like when they got back. She was going to move in with him - it wasn't like she had anywhere else to go, and besides, the comfort of having another person next to you after the long days, the horrifying things they saw everyday, was something they were both looking forward to.

Ressler presses his fists into his eyes until he sees stars, and then abruptly decides to take a shower and head into work, even though Harold Cooper - who had been returned to his position as Director of the Task Force - had told him to take a few days off.

It'll keep him busy, he reasons, turning the hot water on and stepping under the stream. He hisses as the water - warmer than he'd meant - cascades across his skin. He turns it up a little higher, and scrubs himself clean before resting his head under the hard stream of water.

It's harder than he remembers.

Being alone.

**8:45 AM**

She's walking across the hard, cold concrete, and though she'd seen the video, though she knows that she's retracing his exact steps, her heart is beating and her throat is tight because there's no way in hell she's actually  _doing this_.

Except she is, and she has to keep her head low as she pushes open the glass doors. She walks inside, bumping into a young man who is in a hurry and doesn't look up into her eyes.

There's a line of course, but she keeps her eyes downcast, her hands holding tightly to the metal case that contains the information she'll need.

 _"Stay calm,"_  a voice advises her, calm and collected as always, through the mic in her ear.  _"You have to uphold my legacy here, Lizzie. Stop shaking_."

Part of her wants to tell him off, and the other part of her wants to laugh in disbelief. She settles for smiling, which does wonders for her nerves.

It's with a refreshed sense of determination that she takes the final step up to the bored looking woman behind the counter.

"My name is Elizabeth Keen, and I need to speak to your Director."

The bored looking woman suddenly looks a lot less bored, and if Liz had to guess what she was staring at, open-mouthed, on her computer screen, she'd bet her left kidney that it was a picture of her, with the lovely caption of  ** _FBI Top Ten Most Wanted_**.

Sirens begin going off, and though her heart is now pounding so hard she can hear nothing else, she retraces his steps in her mind and walks to the middle of the floor, to the logo when meant and still means so much to her. The logo that signified everything she ever wanted out of life, everything she ever imagined herself doing.

She leans down, on her knees, and puts her hands behind her head. She's tackled, and her arms are pulled behind her back, cuffed, and the last thing she heard through the mic before it's pulled from her ear is a soft, chuckling,

_"Good luck, and see you soon."_

**10:15 AM**

Ressler wants to roll his eyes, or possibly stand up and snap the blinds shut so that people will stop  _staring at him_. He knows they mean well. Especially Aram and Samar, who have been shooting him - and more pointedly, the empty chair across from him - pitying looks for the past two hours.

He's fully aware that her chair is empty, he thinks, shuffling through another file - one of hundreds that had piled up while he was gone. Their office is only half full, and he finds himself sighing every few minutes when he looks up and doesn't see her head of dark hair, her smile or her sparkling eyes.

" _Shut up!_ " he yells out of his open door, and a new recruit squeaks in surprise and hurries past his office, where he'd been unfortunate enough to walk at the wrong time. Aram just tosses him an amused grin.

"Didn't say anything, boss."

"I can hear you  _thinking_. Leave me alone. And I'm not your boss," he grouses, and Aram chuckles to himself, amused. Samar, who is sitting next to him, punches him lightly in the arm. He presses his lips together, containing his laughter but not his smile.

They're worried about Liz, of course, but when Ressler had told them Reddington had a plan, they seemed relieved and confident that Liz would be home soon. Ressler couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had followed him from Florida, however.

His dread is immediately replaced with adrenaline when alarms start going off, however. The red, flashing light fills his office, and he should have known that the Post Office couldn't go more than a day without a crisis of some sort. He jumps up and runs out of his office, meeting Harold Cooper at the bottom of the stairs.

"What's going on, boss?" he asks, and Harold smiles slightly at the acknowledgement before nodding his head in Aram's direction, motioning that he and Samar should join them.

"I just got word that they're bringing someone in. The Field Office just called ahead and said that they're transporting a Top Ten to us for lockdown."

Ressler's heart begins beating fast, his pulse stuttering as he walks faster.  _Reddington?_ he thinks, and he doesn't have time to contemplate what that means for Liz - or him - before he's standing in a room, rectangular in shape, filled with flashing lights and the sound he'd grown so used to years ago - the sound of the klaxons blaring as the box - the box which he'd almost died in last year - readied itself for its newest prisoner.

Then the room is silent - blessedly silent - and all eyes are on him as the prisoner turns around, a prisoner that is most definitely  _not_ Raymond Reddington, but who  _is_  most definitely on the FBI's Top Ten Most Wanted list.

All eyes are on him. He can feel them, but he doesn't spare them a single glance. His eyes are glued to the screen, where the image of Elizabeth Keen greets him. She seems him standing in the observation room, and grins at his shocked expression as she opens her mouth to speak.

"My name is Elizabeth Keen, and from here on out, I speak  _only_  with Donald Ressler."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAM. Done.
> 
> Please Review! I LOVE this ending, tell me what you think!


End file.
